MY  FRIEND 

IL  — 

p  p  O<sP 

lv v-/  O 


HENRY 


MY  FRIEND   PROSPERO 


MY  FRIEND  PROSPERO 

A    NOVEL    ; 

HENRY    HAUL AN 

. 

AUTHOR     OF    THE    CARDINA1 
THE     LADY    PARAM< 


Frontispiece  by  Jmiis 

NEW    YORK 
McCLURE,    PHILLIPS 
MCMIV 


CO. 


.f.  J:IX- 


DRAWN   BY   LOUIS  LOEB 

PRINCESS    MARIA    DOLORES   OF   ZELT-NEUMINSTER 


MY  FRIEND  PROSPERO 

A    NOVEL    BY 
HENRY    HARLAND 

AUTHOR     OF     THE     CARDINAL'S     SNUFF-BOX 
THE     LADY     PARAMOUNT,     ETC. 


Frontispiece  by  Louis  Loeb 

NEW    YORK 

McCLURE,    PHILLIPS    $ 
MCMIV 


CO, 


COPTBIGHT,   1904,   BY 

HENRY    HARLAND 
Published,  January,  1904 


COPYRIGHT,  1903,  BY  S.  S.  MCCLURE  COMPANY 


fv 


MY   FRIEND  PROSPERO 


PART    FIRST 


The  coachman  drew  up  his  horses  before  the  castle 
gateway,  where  their  hoofs  beat  a  sort  of  fan 
fare  on  the  stone  pavement;  and  the  footman, 
letting  himself  smartly  down,  pulled,  with  a  per 
emptory  gesture  that  was  j  ust  not  quite  a  swagger, 
the  bronze  hand  at  the  end  of  the  dangling  bell- 
cord. 

Seated  alone  in  her  great  high-swung  barouche, 
in  the  sweet  April  weather,  Lady  Blanchemain 
gave  the  interval  that  followed  to  a  consideration 
of  the  landscape:  first,  sleeping  in  shadowy  still 
ness,  the  formal  Italian  garden,  its  terraced  lawns 
and  metrical  parterres,  its  straight  dark  avenues 
of  ilex,  its  cypresses,  fountains,  statues,  balus 
trades  ;  and  then,  laughing  in  the  breeze  and  the 
sun,  the  wild  Italian  valley,  a  forest  of  blossoming 

961709 


4  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

fruit-trees,  with  the  river  winding  and  glinting  in 
its  midst,  with  olive-clad  hills  blue-grey  at  either 
side,  and  beyond  the  hills,  peering  over  their 
shoulders,  the  snow-peaks  of  mountains,  crisp 
against  the  sky,  and  in  the  level  distance  the  hazy 
shimmer  of  the  lake. 

"It  is  lovely,"  she  exclaimed,  fervently,  in  a 
whisper,  "lovely. — And  only  a  generation  of 
blind-worms,"  was  her  after-thought,  "could  dis 
cern  in  it  the  slightest  resemblance  to  the  drop- 
scene  of  a  theatre." 


II 

Big,  humorous,  emotional,  imperious,  but,  above 
all,  interested  and  sociable  Lady  Blanchemain:  do 
you  know  her,  I  wonder  ?  Her  billowy  white  hair  ? 
Her  handsome  soft  old  face,  with  its  smooth  skin, 
and  the  good  strong  bony  structure  underneath? 
Her  beautiful  old  grey  eyes,  full  of  tenderness  and 
shrewdness,  of  curiosity,  irony,  indulgence,  over 
arched  and  emphasised  by  regular  black  eyebrows? 


PART    FIRST  5 

Her  pretty  little  plump  pink-white  hands  (like 
two  little  elderly  Cupids),  with  their  shining 
panoply  of  rings  ?  And  her  luxurious,  courageous, 
high-hearted  manner  of  dressing?  The  light 
colours  and  jaunty  fashion  of  her  gowns?  Her 
laces,  ruffles,  embroideries?  Her  gay  little  bonnets? 
Her  gems  ?  Linda  Baroness  Blanchemain,  of  Fring 
Place,  Sussex;  Belmore  Gardens,  Kensington;  and 
Villa  Antonina,  San  Remo:  big,  merry,  sociable, 
sentimental,  wordly-wise,  impetuous  Linda  Blanche- 
main:  do  you  know  her?  If  you  do,  I  am  sure 
you  love  her  and  rejoice  in  her;  and  enough  is  said. 
If  you  don't,  I  beg  leave  to  present  and  to  com 
mend  her. 

I  spoke,  by-the-bye,  of  her  "old"  face,  her 
"old"  eyes.  She  is,  to  be  sure,  in  so  far  as  mere 
numbers  of  years  tell,  an  old  woman.  But  I  once 
heard  her  throw  out,  in  the  heat  of  conversation, 
the  phrase,  "a  young  old  thing  like  me;"  and  I 
thought  she  touched  a  truth. 


MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 


III 


Well,  then,  the  footman,  in  his  masterful  way, 
pulled  the  bell-cord;  Lady  Blanchemain  con 
templated  the  landscape,  and  had  her  opinion  of 
a  generation  that  could  liken  it  to  the  drop-scene 
of  a  theatre ;  and  in  due  process  of  things  the  bell 
was  answered. 

It  was  answered  by  a  man  in  a  costume  that 
struck  my  humorous  old  friend  as  pleasing:  a  sal 
low  little  man  whose  otherwise  quite  featureless 
suit  of  tweeds  was  embellished  by  scarlet  worsted 
shoulder-knots.  With  lack-lustre  eyes,  from  be 
hind  the  plexus  of  the  grille,  he  rather  stolidly  re 
garded  the  imposing  British  equipage,  and  waited 
to  be  addressed. 

Lady  Blanchemain  addressed  him  in  the  lan 
guage  of  Pistoja.  Might  one,  she  inquired,  with 
her  air  of  high  affability,  in  her  distinguished  old 


PART  FIRST  7 

voice,  might  one  visit  the  castle? — a  question 
purely  of  convention,  for  she  had  not  come  hither 
without  an  assurance  from  her  guide-book. 

Shoulder-knots,  however, — either  to  flaunt  his 
attainments,  or  because  indeed  Pistoiese  (what 
though  the  polyglot  races  of  Italy  have  agreed 
upon  it  as  a  lingua  franca)  offered  the  greater 
difficulties  to  his  Lombardian  tongue, — replied  in 
French. 

"I  do  not  think  so,  Madame,"  was  his  reply,  in 
a  French  sufficiently  heavy  and  stiff -jointed,  en 
forced  by  a  dubious  oscillation  of  the  head. 

Lady  Blanchemain's  black  eyebrows  shot  up 
ward,  marking  her  surprise;  then  drew  together, 
marking  her  determination. 

"But  of  course  one  can — it's  in  the  guide 
book,"  she  insisted,  and  held  up  the  red-bound 
volume. 

The  sceptic  gave  a  shrug,  as  one  who  dis 
claimed  responsibility  and  declined  discussion. 

"Me,  I  do  not  think  so.  But  patience!  I  will 
go  and  ask,'*  he  said,  and,  turning  his  back,  faded 


8  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

from  sight  in  the  depths  of  the  dark  tunnel-like 

porte-cochere. 

Vexed,  perplexed,  Lady  Blanchemain  fidgeted 
a  little.  To  have  taken  this  long  drive  for  noth 
ing! — sweet  though  the  weather  was,  fair  though 
the  valley :  but  she  was  not  a  person  who  could 
let  the  means  excuse  the  end.  She  neither  liked  nor 
was  accustomed  to  see  her  enterprises  balked, — to 
see  doors  remain  closed  in  her  face.  Doors  indeed 
had  a  habit  of  flying  open  at  her  approach.  Be 
sides,  the  fellow's  manner, — his  initial  stare  and 
silence,  his  tone  when  he  spoke,  his  shrug,  his  ex 
hortation  to  patience,  and  somethkig  too  in  the 
conduct  of  his  back  as  he  departed, — hadn't  it 
lacked  I  don't  know  what  of  becoming  deference? 
To  satisfy  her  amour-propre,  at  any  rate,  that 
the  mistake,  if  there  was  a  mistake,  sprang  from 
no  malapprehension  of  her  own,  she  looked  up 
chapter  and  verse.  Yes,  there  the  assurance  stood, 
circumstantial,  in  all  the  convincingness  of  the 
sturdy,  small  black  type: — 

"From  Roccadoro   a   charming   excursion    may 


PART    FIRST  9 

be  made,  up  the  beautiful  Val  Rampio,  to  the 
mediaeval  village  of  Sant'  Alessina  (7  miles),  with 
its  magnificent  castle,  in  fine  grounds,  formerly  a 
seat  of  the  Sforzas,  now  belonging  to  the  Prince 
of  Zelt-Neuminstcr,  and  containing  the  celebrated 
Zelt-Neuminster  collection  of  paintings.  Incor 
porated  in  the  castle-buildings,  a  noticeable  pecu 
liarity,  are  the  parish  church  and  presbytery. 
Accessible  daily,  except  Monday,  from  10  to  4 ; 
attendant  1  fr." 

So  then!  To-day  was  Wednesday,  the  hour 
between  two  and  three.  So — !  Her  amour- 
propre  triumphed,  but  I  fancy  her  vexation 
mounted. 


IV 


"I  beg  your  pardon.  It's  disgraceful  you  should 
have  been  made  to  wait.  The  porter  is  an  idiot. 
You  wish,  of  course,  to  see  the  house —  ?" 

The   English  words,   on  a  key  of  spontaneous 
apology,   with  a   very   zealous   inflection    of   con- 


10  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

cern — yet,  at  the  same  time,  with  a  kind  of  entirely 
respectful  and  amiable  abruptness,  as  of  one  hail 
ing  a  familiar  friend, — were  pronounced  in  a 
breath  by  a  brisk,  cheerful,  unmistakably  English 
voice. 

Lady  Blanchemain,  whose  attention  had  still 
been  on  the  incriminated  page,  looked  quickly  up, 
and  (English  voice  and  spontaneous  apology 
notwithstanding)  I  won't  vouch  that  the  answer 
at  the  tip  of  her  impulsive  tongue  mightn't  have 
proved  a  hasty  one — but  the  speaker's  appearance 
gave  her  pause:  the  appearance  of  the  tall,  smil 
ing,  unmistakably  English  young  man,  by  whom 
Shoulder-knots  had  returned  accompanied,  and 
who  now,  having  pushed  the  grille  ajar  and  issued 
forth,  stood,  placing  himself  with  a  tentative 
obeisance  at  her  service,  beside  the  carriage:  he 
was  so  clearly,  first  of  all — what,  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  her  preoccupation,  his  voice,  tone,  accent  would 
have  warned  her  to  expect — so  visibly  a  gentleman ; 
and  then,  with  the  even  pink  of  his  complexion,  his 
yellowish  hair  and  beard,  his  alert,  friendly,  very 


PART  FIRST  11 

blue  blue  eyes — with  his  very  blue  blue  flannels 
too,  and  his  brick-red  knitted  tie — he  was  so  vivid 
and  so  unusual. 

His  appearance  gave  her  pause;  and  in  the 
result  she  in  her  turn  almost  apologised. 

"This  wretched  book,"  she  explained,  patheti 
cally  bringing  forward  her  piece  justificative, 
"said  that  it  was  open  to  the  public." 

The  vivid  young  man  hastened  to  put  her  in 
the  right. 

"It  is— it  is,"  he  eagerly  affirmed.  "Only," 
he  added,  with  a  vaguely  rueful  modulation,  and 
always  with  that  amiable  abruptness,  as  a  man 
very  mucji  at  his  ease,  while  his  blue  eyes  whimsi 
cally  brightened,  "only  the  blessed  public  never 
comes — we're  so  off  the  beaten  path.  And  I  sup 
pose  one  mustn't  expect  a  Scioccone" — his  voice 
swelled  on  the  word,  and  he  cast  sidelong  a  scath 
ing  glance  at  his  summoner — "to  cope  with  un 
precedented  situations.  Will  you  allow  me  to  help 
you  out?" 

"Ah,"    thought    Lady    Blanchemain,    "Eton," 


12  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

his  tone  and  accent  now  nicely  appraised  by  an 
experienced  ear.  "Eton — yes ;  and  probably — 
h'm?  Probably  Balliol,"  her  experience  led  her 
further  to  surmise.  But  what — with  her  insatiable 
curiosity  about  people,  she  had  of  course  im 
mediately  begun  to  wonder — what  was  an  Eton 
and  Balliol  man  doing,  apparently  in  a  position 
of  authority,  at  this  remote  Italian  castle? 


He  helped  her  out,  very  gracefully,  very  gal 
lantly  ;  and  under  his  guidance  she  made  the  tour 
of  the  vast  building:  its  greater  court  and  lesser 
court ;  its  cloisters,  with  their  faded  frescoes,  and 
their  marvellous  outlook,  northward,  upon  the 
Alps;  its  immense  rotunda,  springing  to  the  open 
dome,  where  the  sky  was  like  an  inset  plaque  of 
turquoise;  its  "staircase  of  honour,"  guarded,  in 
an  ascending  file,  by  statues  of  men  in  armour; 
and  then,  on  the  piano  nobile,  its  endless  chain  of 


PART    FIRST  13 

big,  empty,  silent,  splendid  state  apartments,  with 
their  pavements  of  gleaming  marble,  in  many- 
coloured  patterns,  their  painted  and  gilded  ceil 
ings,  tapestried  walls,  carved  wood  and  moulded 
stucco,  their  pictures,  pictures,  pictures,  and  their 
atmosphere  of  stately  desolation,  their  memories  of 
another  age,  their  reminders  of  the  power  and 
pomp  of  people  who  had  long  been  ghosts. 

He  was  tall  (with  that  insatiable  curiosity  of 
hers,  she  was  of  course  continuously  studying  him), 
tall  and  broad-shouldered,  but  not  a  bit  rigid  or 
inflexible — of  a  figure  indeed  conspicuously  supple, 
suave  in  its  quick  movements,  soft  in  its  energetic 
lines,  a  figure  that  could  with  equal  thoroughness 
be  lazy  in  repose  and  vehement  in  action.  His  yel 
low  hair  was  thick  and  fine,  and  if  it  hadn't  been 
cropped  so  close  would  have  curled  a  little.  His 
beard,  in  small  crinkly  spirals,  did  actually  curl, 
and  toward  the  edge  its  yellow  burned  to  red.  And 
his  blue  eyes  were  so  very  very  blue,  and  so  very 
keen,  and  so  very  frank  and  pleasant — "They  are 
like  sailors'  eyes,"  thought  Lady  Blanchemain, 


14  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

who  had  a  sentiment  for  sailors.  He  carried  his 
head  well  thrown  back,  as  a  man  who  was  per 
fectly  sure  of  himself  and  perfectly  unself-con- 
scious;  and  thus  unconsciously  he  drew  attention 
to  the  vigorous  sweep  of  his  profile,  the  decisive 
angles  of  his  brow  and  nose.  His  voice  was  brisk 
and  cheerful  and  masculine;  and  that  abruptness 
with  which  he  spoke — which  seemed,  as  it  were, 
to  imply  a  previous  acquaintance — was  so  tem 
pered  by  manifest  good  breeding  and  so  coloured 
by  manifest  good  will,  that  it  became  a  positive 
part  and  parcel  of  what  one  liked  in  him.  It  was 
the  abruptness  of  a  man  very  much  at  his  ease, 
very  much  a  man  of  the  world,  yet  it  was  some 
how,  in  its  essence,  boyish.  It  expressed  freshness, 
sincerity,  conviction,  a  boyish  wholesale  surrender 
of  himself  to  the  business  of  the  moment;  it  ex 
pressed,  perhaps  above  all,  a  boyish  thorough 
good  understanding  with  his  interlocutor.  "It 
amounts,"  thought  his  present  interlocutrice,  "to 
a  kind  of  infinitely  sublimated  bluffness." 

And    then   she    fell   to   examining   his    clothes: 


PART    FIRST  15 

his  loose,  soft,  very  blue  blue  flannels,  with  vague 
stripes  of  darker  blue;  his  soft  shirt,  with  its  roll 
ing  collar;  his  red  tie,  knitted  of  soft  silk,  and 
tied  in  a  loose  sailor 's-knot.  She  liked  his  clothes, 
and  she  liked  the  way  he  wore  them.  They  suited 
him.  They  were  loose  and  comfortable  and  un 
conventional,  but  they  were  beautifully  fresh  and 
well  cared  for,  and  showed  him,  if  indifferent  to 
the  fashion-plate  of  the  season,  meticulous  in  a 
fashion  of  his  own.  "It's  hard  to  imagine  him 
dressed  otherwise,"  she  said,  and  instantly  had  a 
vision  of  him  dressed  for  dinner. 

But  what — what — what  was  he  doing  at  Castel 
Sant'  Alessina? 


VI 


Meanwhile  he  plainly  knew  a  tremendous  lot  about 
Italian  art.  Lady  Blanchemain  herself  knew  a 
good  deal,  and  could  recognise  a  pundit.  He  il 
lumined  their  progress  by  a  running  fire  of  expo 
sition  and  commentary,  learned  and  discerning,  to 


16  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

she  encouragingly  listened,  and,  as  occasion 
esponded.  But  Boltraffios,  Ber- 
eren  a  putative  Giorgione,  could 
not  divert  her  mind  from  its  human  problem. 
What  was  he  doing  at  Castel  Sant"  Akssraa,  the 
according  to  her  guide-book,  of  an 
?  What  was  his  status  here,  ap- 


parently  (bar  servants)  in  solitary  occupation? 
Was  IK  its  tenant  ?  He  couldn't,  surely,  this  well- 
drested,  fcij^li  Inn!  cultivated  young  compatriot, 
he  couldn't  be  a  mere  employe,  a  steward  or 
curator?  No:  probably  a  tenant.  Antecedently 
indeed  it  might  seem  unlikely  that  a  young  Eng- 
should  become  the  tenant  of  an  establish- 
so  huge  and  so  sequestered :  but  was  it  con 
ceivable  that  this  particular  young  Englishman 
should  be  a  mere  employe?  And  was  there  any 
alternative?  She  hearkened  for  a  word,  a 
that  might  throw  light:  but  of  such  notes, 
soch  words,  a  young  man's  conversation,  in  the 
t  ;••  iiiMaiam*^  mold  perhaps  naturally  yield  a 
crop. 


PART    FIRST  IT 

"You  mustn't  let  me  tire  you,"  he  said,  pres 
ently,  as  one  who  had  forgotten  and  suddenly 
remembered  that  looking  at  pictures  is  i  iliinilHfe 
work.  "Won't  you  sit  here  and  rest  a  littler** 

They  were  in  a  smaller  room  than  any  they 
had  previously  traversed,  an  octagonal  room,  which 
a  single  lofty  window  filled  with  sunshine. 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  said  Lady  Blanchemain,  and 
seated  herself  on  the  circular  divan  in  the  centre 
of  the  polished  terrazza  floor.  She  wasn't  really 
tired  in  the  least,  the  indefatigable  old  sight-seer; 
but  a  respite  from  picture-gazing  would  enable 
her  to  turn  the  talk.  She  put  up  her  mother-of- 
pearl  lorgnon,  and  glanced  round  the  walls;  then, 
lowering  it,  she  frankly  raised  her  eyes,  full  of 
curiosity  and  kindness,  to  her  companion's. 

"It's  a  surprise,  and  a  delightful  one,"  she  re 
marked,  "  having  pushed  so  far  afield  in  a  foreign 
knd,  to  be  met  by  the  good  offices  of  a  fellow 
countryman — it's  so  nice  of  you  to  be  English." 

And  her  eyes  softly  changed,  their  curiosity  be 
ing  veiled  by  a  kind  of  humorous  content. 


18  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

The  young  man's  face,  from  its  altitude  of  six- 
feet-something,  beamed  responsively  down  upon 
her. 

"Oh,"  he  laughed,  "you  mustn't  give  me  too 
much  credit.  To  be  English  nowadays  is  so  in- 
gloriously  easy — since  foreign  lands  have  become 
merely  the  wider  suburbs  of  London." 

Lady  Blanchemain's  eyes  lighted  approvingly. 
Afterward  she  looked  half  serious. 

"True,"  she  discriminated,  "London  has  spread 
pretty  well  over  the  whole  of  Europe;  but  Eng 
land,  thanks  be  to  goodness,  still  remains  merci 
fully  small." 

"Yes,"  agreed  the  young  man,  though  with  a 
lilt  of  dubiety,  and  a  frown  of  excogitation,  as 
if  he  weren't  sure  that  he  had  quite  caught  her 
drift. 

"The  mercy  of  it  is,"  she  smilingly  pointed 
out,  "that  English  folk,  decent  ones,  have  no 
need  to  fight  shy  of  each  other  when  they  meet 
as  strangers.  We  all  know  more  or  less  about 
each  other  by  hearsay,  or  about  each  other's  peo- 


PART    FIRST  19 

pie;  and  we're  all  pretty  sure  to  have  some  com 
mon   acquaintances.      The   smallness   of   England 
makes  for  sociability  and  confidence." 

"It  ought  to,  one  would  think,"  the  young  man 
admitted.  "But  does  it,  in  fact?  It  had  some 
how  got  stuck  in  my  head  that  English  folk, 
meeting  as  strangers,  were  rather  apt  to  glare. 
We're  most  of  us  in  such  a  funk,  you  see,  lest,  if 
we  treat  a  stranger  with  civility,  he  should  turn 
out  not  to  be  a  duke." 

"Oh,"  cried  Lady  Blanchemain,  with  merriment, 
"you  forget  that  I  said  decent.  I  meant,  of 
course,  folk  who  are  dukes.  We're  all  dukes — or 
bagmen." 

The  young  man  chuckled;  but  in  a  minute  he 
pulled  a  long  face,  and  made  big,  ominous  eyes. 

"I  feel  I  ought  to  warn  you,"  he  said  in  a  por 
tentous  voice,  "that  some  of  us  are  mere  marquises 
— of  the  house  of  Carabas." 

Lady  Blanchemain,  her  whole  expansive  person, 
simmered  with  enjoyment. 

"Bless  you,"  she  cried,  "those  are  the  ducalest, 


20  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

for  marquises — of  the  house  of  Carabas — are  men 
of  dash  and  spirit,  born  to  bear  everything  before 
them,  and  to  marry  the  King's  daughter." 

With  that,  she  had  a  moment  of  abstraction. 
Again,  her  eyeglass  up,  she  glanced  round  the 
walls — hung,  in  this  octagonal  room,  with  dim- 
coloured  portraits  of  women,  all  in  wonderful 
toilets,  with  wonderful  hair  and  head-gear,  all 
wonderfully  young  and  pleased  with  things,  and 
all  four  centuries  dead.  They  caused  her  a  little 
feeling  of  uneasiness,  they  were  so  dead  and  silent, 
and  yet  somehow,  in  their  fixed  postures,  with 
their  unblinking  eyes,  their  unvarying  smiles,  so 
— as  it  seemed  to  her — so  watchful,  so  intent ;  and 
it  was  a  relief  to  turn  from  them  to  the  window, 
to  the  picture  framed  by  the  window  of  warm, 
breathing,  heedless  nature.  But  all  the  while,  in 
her  interior  mind,  she  was  busy  with  the  man  be 
fore  her.  "He  looks,"  she  considered,  "tall  as 
he  is,  and  with  his  radiant  blondeur — with  the 
gold  in  his  hair  and  beard,  and  the  sea-blue  in 
his  eyes — he  looks  like  a  hero  out  of  some  old 


PART  FIRST  21 

Norse  saga.  He  looks  like — what's  his  name? — 
like  Odin.  I  must  really  compel  him  to  explain 
himself." 

It  very  well  may  be,  meantime,  that  he  was 
reciprocally  busy  with  her,  taking  her  in,  ad 
miring  her,  this  big,  jolly,  comely,  high-mannered 
old  woman,  all  in  soft  silks  and  drooping  laces, 
who  had  driven  into  his  solitude  from  Heaven  knew 
where,  and  was  quite  unquestionably  Someone, 
Heaven  knew  who. 

She  ha'd  a  moment  of  abstraction;  but  now, 
emerging  from  it,  she  used  her  eyeglass  as  a 
pointer,  and  indicatively  swept  the  circle  of  painted 
eavesdroppers. 

"They  make  one  feel  like  their  grandmother, 
their  youth  is  so  flagrant,"  she  sighed,  "these 
grandmothers  of  the  Quattrocento.  Ah,  well,  we 
can  only  be  old  once,  and  we  should  take  advan 
tage  of  the  privileges  of  age  while  we  have  'em. 
Old  people,  I  am  thankful  to  say,  are  allowed, 
amongst  other  things,  to  be  inquisitive.  I'm 
brazenly  so.  Now,  if  one  of  our  common  ac- 


22  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

quaintances  were  at  hand — for  with  England  still 
mercifully  small,  we're  sure  to  possess  a  dozen, 
you  and  I — what  do  you  think  is  the  question  I 
should  ask  him? — I  should  ask  him,"  she  avowed, 
with  a  pretty  effect  of  hesitation,  and  a  smile  that 
went  as  an  advance-guard  to  disarm  resentment, 
"to  tell  me  who  you  are,  and  all  about  you — and 
to  introduce  you  to  me." 

"Oh,"  cried  the  young  man,  laughing.  He 
laughed  for  a  second  or  two.  In  the  end,  pleas 
antly,  with  a  bow,  "My  name,"  he  said,  "if  you 
can  possibly  care  to  know,  is  Blanchemain." 

His  visitor  caught  her  breath.  She  sat  up 
straight,  and  gazed  hard  at  him. 

"Blanchemain?"  she  gasped. 

VII 

There  were,  to  be  sure,  reasons  and  to  spare  why 
the  name  should  make  her  sit  up  straight.  Her 
curiosity  had  turned  the  key,  and  lo,  with  a  click, 
here  was  an  entirely  changed,  immensely  com 
plicated,  intensely  poignant  situation.  But  our 


PART  FIRST  23 

excitable  old  friend  was  an  Englishwoman:  dis 
simulation  would  be  her  second  nature;  you  could 
trust  her  to  pull  the  wool  over  your  eyes  with  a 
fleet  and  practised  hand.  Instinctively,  further 
more,  she  would  seek  to  extract  from  such  a 
situation  all  the  fun  it  promised.  Taken  off  her 
guard,  for  the  span  of  ten  heart-beats  she  sat  up 
straight  and  stared;  but  with  the  eleventh  her 
attitude  relaxed.  She  had  regained  her  outward 
nonchalance,  and  resolved  upon  her  system  of 
fence. 

"Ah,"  she  said,  on  a  tone  judiciously  com 
pounded  of  feminine  artlessness  and  of  forthright 
British  candour,  and  with  a  play  of  the  eyebrows 
that  attributed  her  momentary  suscitation  to  the 
workings  of  memory,  "of  course — Blanchemain. 
The  Sussex  Blanchemains.  I  expect  there's  only 
one  family  of  the  name?" 

"I've  never  heard  of  another,"  assented  the 
young  man. 

"The  Ventmere  Blanchemains,"  she  pursued 
pensively.  "Lord  Blanchemain  of  Ventmere  is 
your  titled  head?" 


24  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"Exactly,"  said  he. 

"I  knew  the  late  Lord  Blanchemain — I  knew 
him  fairly  well,"  she  mentioned,  always  with  a 
certain  pensiveness. 

"Oh — ?"  said  he,  politely  interested. 

"Yes,"  said  she.  "But  I've  never  met  his  suc 
cessor.  The  two  were  not,  I  believe,  on  speaking 
terms.  Of  course," — and  her  forthright  British 
candour  carried  her  trippingly  over  the  delicate 
ground, — "it's  common  knowledge  that  the  fam 
ily  is  divided  against  itself — hostile  branches — a 
Protestant  branch  and  a  Catholic.  The  present 
lord,  if  I've  got  it  right,  is  a  Catholic,  and  the 
late  lord's  distant  cousin?" 

"You've  got  it  quite  right,"  the  young  man 
assured  her,  with  a  nod,  and  a  little  laugh. 
"They  had  the  same  great-great-grandfather. 
The  last  few  lords  have  been  Protestants,  but  in 
our  branch  the  family  have  never  forsaken  the 
old  religion." 

"I  know,"  said  she.  "And  wasn't  it — I've  heard 
the  story,  but  I'm  a  bit  hazy  about  it — wasn't 


PART  FIRST  25 

it  owing  to  your — is  'recusancy'  the  word? — 
that  you  lost  the  title?  Wasn't  there  some  sort 
of  sharp  practice  at  your  expense  in  the  last 
century  ?" 

The  young  man  had  another  little  laugh. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  he  answered,  "that  wasn't  very 
much  the  fashion.  The  late  lord's  great-grand 
father  denounced  his  elder  brother  as  a  Papist 
and  a  Jacobite — nothing  more  than  that.  It  was 
after  the  'Forty-five.  So  the  cadet  took  the  title 
and  estates.  But  with  the  death  of  the  late  lord, 
a  dozen  years  or  so  ago,  the  younger  line  became 
extinct,  and  the  title  reverted." 

"I  see,"  said  my  lady.  She  knitted  her  eye 
brows,  computing.  After  an  instant,  "General 
Blanchemain,"  she  resumed,  "as  the  present  lord 
was  called  for  the  best  part  of  his  life,  is  a  bache 
lor.  You  will  be  one  of  his  nephews?"  She  raised 
her  eyes  inquiringly. 

"The  son  of  his  brother  Philip,"  said  the  young 
man. 

Lady  Blanchemain  sat  up  straight  again. 


26  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"But  then,"  she  cried,  forgetting  to  conceal 
her  perturbation,  "then  you're  the  heir.  Philip 
Blanchemain  had  but  one  son,  and  was  the  Gen 
eral's  immediate  junior.  You're  John  Blanche- 
main — John  Francis  Joseph  Mary.  You're  the 
heir." 

The  young  man  smiled — at  her  eagerness,  per 
haps. 

"The  heir-presumptive — I  suppose  I  am,"  he 
said. 

Lady  Blanchemain  leaned  back  and  gently 
tittered. 

"See  how  I  know  my  peerage !"  she  exclaimed. 
Then,  looking  grave,  "You're  heir  to  an  uncom 
monly  good  old  title,"  she  informed  him. 

"I  hope  it  may  be  many  a  long  day  before  I'm 
anything  else,"  said  he. 

"Your  uncle  is  an  old  man,"  she  suggestively 
threw  out. 

"Oh,  not  so  very  old,"  he  submitted.  "Only 
seventy,  or  thereabouts,  and  younger  in  many  re 
spects  than  I  am.  I  hope  he'll  live  forever." 


PART    FIRST  27 

"Hum,"  said  she,  and  appeared  to  fall  a-mus- 
ing.  Absently,  as  it  seemed,  and  slowly,  she  was 
pulling  off  her  gloves. 

"Feuds  in  families,"  she  said,  in  a  minute,  "are 
bad  things.  Why  don't  you  make  it  up?" 

The  young  man  waved  his  hand,  a  pantomimic 
non-possumus. 

"There's  no  one  left  to  make  it  up  with — the 
others  are  all  dead." 

"Oh?"  she  wondered,  her  eyebrows  elevated, 
whilst  automatically  her  fingers  continued  to  op 
erate  upon  her  gloves.  "I  thought  the  last  lord 
left  a  widow.  I  seem  to  have  heard  of  a  Lady 
Blanchemain  somewhere." 

The  young  man  gave  still  another  of  his  little 
laughs. 

"Linda  Lady  Blanchemain?"  he  said.  "Yes, 
one  hears  a  lot  of  her.  A  highly  original  char 
acter,  by  all  accounts.  One  hears  of  her  every 
where." 

Linda  Lady  Blanchemain's  lip  began  to  quiver; 
but  she  got  it  under  control. 


28  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"Well?"  she  questioned — eyes  fixing  his,  and 
brimming  with  a  kind  of  humorous  defiance,  as 
if  to  say,  "Think  me  an  impertinent  old  meddler 
if  you  will,  and  do  your  worst"-  "Why  don't 
you  make  it  up  with  her?" 

But  he  didn't  seem  to  mind  the  meddling  in 
the  least.  He  stood  at  ease,  and  plausibly  put 
his  case. 

"Why  don't  I?  Or  why  doesn't  my  uncle? 
My  uncle  is  a  temperamental  conservative,  a  dev 
otee  to  his  traditions — the  sort  of  man  who  will 
never  do  anything  that  hasn't  been  the  con 
stant  habit  of  his  forebears.  He  would  no  more 
dream  of  healing  a  well-established  family  feud 
than  of  selling  the  family  plate.  And  I — well, 
surely,  it  would  never  be  for  me  to  make  the 
advances." 

"No,  you're  right,"  acknowledged  Lady 
Blanchemain.  "The  advances  should  come  from 
her.  But  people  have  such  a  fatal  way — even 
without  being  temperamental  conservatives — of 
leaving  things  as  they  find  them.  Besides,  never 


PART  FIRST  29 

having  seen  you,  she  couldn't  know  how  nice  you 
are.  All  the  same,  I'll  confess,  if  you  insist  upon 
it,  that  she  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  herself.  Come 
— let's  make  it  up." 

She  rose,  a  great  soft  glowing  vision  of  benig- 
nancy,  and  held  out  her  hand,  now  gloveless,  her 
pretty  little  smooth  plump  right  hand,  with  its 
twinkling  rings. 

"Oh!"  cried  the  astonished  young  man,  the  as 
tonished,  amused,  moved,  wondering,  and  entirely 
won  young  man,  his  sea-blue  eyes  wide  open,  and 
a  hundred  lights  of  pleasure  and  surprise  dancing 

in  them. 

The  benignant  vision  floated  toward  him,  and 
he  took  the  little  white  hand  in  his  long  lean 
brown  one. 


30  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 


VIII 

When  the  first  stress  of  their  emotion  had  in  some 
degree  spent  itself,  Lady  Blanchemain,  returning 
to  her  place  on  the  ottoman,  bade  John  sit  down 
beside  her. 

"Now,"  she  said,  genially  imperative,  whilst  all 
manner  of  kindly  and  admiring  interest  shone  in 
her  face,  "there  are  exactly  nine  million  and 
ninety-nine  questions  that  you'll  be  obliged  to 
answer  before  I've  done  with  you.  But  to  begin, 
you  must  clear  up  at  once  a  mystery  that's  been 
troubling  me  ever  since  you  dashed  to  my  rescue 
at  the  gate.  What  in  the  name  of  Reason  is  the 
cause  of  your  residence  in  this  ultramundane 
stronghold  ?" 

John — convict  me  of  damnable  iteration  if  you 
must:  Heaven  has  sent  me  a  laughing  hero — John 
laughed. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "there  are  several  causes — there 
are  exactly  nine  million  and  ninety-eight." 


PART    FIRST  31 

"Name,"  commanded  Lady  Blanchemain,  "the 
first  and  the  last." 

"Well,"  obeyed  he,  pondering,  "I  should  think 
the  first,  the  last,  and  perhaps  the  chief  inter 
mediate,  would  be — the  whole  blessed  thing."  And 
his  arm  described  a  circle  which  comprehended 
the  castle  and  all  within  it,  and  the  countryside 
without. 

"It  has  a  pleasant  site,  I'll  not  deny,"  said  Lady 
Blanchemain.  "But  don't  you  find  it  a  trifle  far 
away?  And  a  bit  up-hill?  I'm  staying  at  the 
Victoria  at  Roccadoro,  and  it  took  me  an  hour 
and  a  half  to  drive  here." 

"But  since,"  said  John,  with  a  flattering  glance, 
"since  you  are  here,  I  have  no  further  reason  to 
deplore  its  farawayness.  So  few  places  are  far 
away,  in  these  times  and  climes,"  he  added,  on  a 
note  of  melancholy,  as  one  to  whom  all  climes  and 
times  were  known. 

"Hum,"  said  Lady  Blanchemain,  matter-of-fact. 
"Have  you  been  here  long?" 

"Let    me    see,"    John    answered.      "To-day    is 


32  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

the  23rd  of  April.  I  arrived  here — I  offer  the 
fact  for  what  it  may  be  worth — on  the  feast  of 
All  Fools." 

"Absit  omen,"  cried  she.     "And  you  intend  to 
stay?" 

"Oh,   I'm   at   least   wise   enough   not  to    fetter 
myself  with  intentions,"  answered  John. 

She  looked  about,  calculating,  estimating. 

"I  suppose  it  costs  you  the  very  eyes  of  your 
head?"  she  asked. 

John  giggled. 

"Guess   what  it   costs — I   give   it  to  you   in   a 
thousand." 

She    continued    her    survey,    brought    it    to    a 
period. 

"A  billion  a  week,"  she  said,  with  finality. 

John  exulted. 

"It  costs  me,"  he  told  her,  "six  francs  fifty  a 
day — wine  included." 

"What!"  cried  she,  mistrusting  her  ears. 

"Yes,"  said  he. 

"Fudge,"  said  she,  not  to  be  caught  with  chaff. 


PART    FIRST  33 

"It  sounds  like  a  traveller's  tale,  I  know ;  but 
that's  so  often  the  bother  with  the  truth,"  said 
he.  "Truth  is  under  no  obligation  to  be  vraisem- 
blable.  I'm  here  en  pension." 

Lady  Blanchemain  sniffed. 

"Does  the  Prince  of  Zelt-Neuminster  take  in 
boarders?"  she  inquired,  her  nose  in  the  air. 

"Not  exactly,"  said  John.  "But  the  Parroco 
of  Sant'  Alessina  does.  I  board  at  the  presby 
tery." 

"Oh,"  said  Lady  Blanchemain,  beginning  to  see 
light,  while  her  eyebrows  went  up,  went  down. 
"You  board  at  the  presbytery?" 

"For  six  francs  fifty  a  day — wine  included," 
chuckled  John. 

"Wine,  and  apparently  the  unhindered  enjoy 
ment  of — the  whole  blessed  thing,"  supplemented 
she,  with  a  reminder  of  his  comprehensive  gesture. 

"Yes — the  run  of  the  house  and  garden,  the 
freedom  of  the  hills  and  valley." 

"I  understand,"  she  said,  and  was  mute  for  a 
space,  readjusting  her  impressions.  "I  had  sup- 


34  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

posed,"  she  went  on  at  last,  "from  the  handsome 
way  in  which  you  snubbed  that  creature  in  shoul 
der-knots,  and  proceeded  to  do  the  honours  of 
the  place,  that  you  were  little  less  than  its  pro 
prietor." 

"Well,  and  so  I  could  almost  feel  I  am,"  laughed 
John.  "I'm  alone  here — there's  none  my  sway  to 
dispute.  And  as  for  the  creature  in  shoulder- 
knots,  what  becomes  of  the  rights  of  man  or  the 
bases  of  civil  society,  if  you  can't  snub  a  creat 
ure  whom  you  regularly  tip?  For  five  francs  a 
week  the  creature  in  shoulder-knots  cleans  my 
boots  (indifferent  well),  brushes  my  clothes,  runs 
my  errands  (indifferent  slow), — and  swallows  my 
snubs  as  if  they  were  polenta." 

"And  tries  to  shoo  intrusive  trippers  from  your 
threshold — and  gets  an  extra  plateful  for  his 
pains,"  laughed  the  lady.  "Where,"  she  asked, 
"does  the  Prince  of  Zelt-Neuminster  keep  him 
self?" 

"In  Vienna,  I  believe.  Anyhow,  at  a  respect 
ful  distance.  The  parroco,  who  is  also  his  sort 


PART  FIRST  35 

of  intendant,  tells  me  he  practically  never  comes 
to  Sant'  Alessina." 

"Good  easy  man,"  quoth  she.  "Yes,  I  certain 
ly  supposed  you  were  his  tenant-in-fee,  at  the 
least.  You  have  an  air."  And  her  bob  of  the 
head  complimented  him  upon  it. 

"Oh,  we  Marquises  of  Carabas !"  cried  John, 
with  a  flourish. 

She  regarded  him  doubtfully. 

"Wouldn't  you  find  yourself  in  a  slightly  diffi 
cult  position,  if  the  Prince  or  his  family  should 
suddenly  turn  up?"  she  suggested. 

"I?     Why?"  asked  John,  his  blue  eyes  blank. 

"A  young  man  boarding  with  the  parroco  for 
six  francs  a  day —  '  she  began. 

"Six  francs  fifty,  please,"  he  gently  inter 
posed. 

"Make  it  seven  if  you  like,"  her  ladyship  large 
ly  conceded.  "Wouldn't  your  position  be  slight 
ly  false?  Would  they  quite  realise  who  you 
were?" 

"What  could  that  possibly  matter?"  wondered 
John,  eyes  blanker  still. 


36  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"I  could  conceive  occasions  in  which  it  might 
matter  furiously,"  said  she.  "Foreigners  can't 
with  half  an  eye  distinguish  amongst  us,  as  we 
ourselves  can ;  and  Austrians  have  such  oddly  ex 
alted  notions.  You  wouldn't  like  to  be  mistaken 
for  Mr.  Snooks?" 

"I  don't  know,"  John  reflected,  vistas  opening 
before  him.  "It  might  be  rather  a  lark." 

"Whrrr,"  said  Lady  Blanchemain,  fanning  her 
self  with  her  pocket-handkerchief.  Then  she  eyed 
him  suspiciously.  "You're  hiding  the  nine  mil 
lion  other  causes  up  your  sleeve.  It  isn't  merely 
the  'whole  blessed  thing'  that's  keeping  an  eaglet 
of  your  feather  alone  in  an  improbable  nest  like 
this — it's  some  one  particular  thing.  In  my  time," 
she  sighed,  "it  would  have  been  a  woman." 

"And  no  wonder,"  riposted  John,  with  a  flowery 
bow. 

"You're  very  good — but  you  confuse  the  issue," 
said  she.  "In  my  time  the  world  was  young  and 
romantic.  In  this  age  of  prose  and  prudence — 
is  it  a  woman?" 


PART    FIRST  37 

"The  world  is  still,  is  always,  young  and  ro 
mantic,"  said  John,  sententious.  "I  can't  admit 
that  an  age  of  prose  and  prudence  is  possible. 
The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead,  and  no  more 
is  its  folly.  The  world  is  always  romantic,  if  you 
have  the  three  gifts  needful  to  make  it  so." 

"Is  it  a  woman?"  repeated  Lady  Blanche- 
main. 

"And  the  three  gifts  are,"  said  he,  "Faith, 
and  the  sense  of  Beauty,  and  the  sense  of  Hu 
mour." 

"And  I  should  have  thought,  an  attractive  mem 
ber  of  the  opposite  sex,"  said  she.  "Is  it  a  wom 
an?" 

"Well,"  he  at  last  replied,  appearing  to  take 
counsel  with  himself,  "I  don't  know  why  I  should 
forbid  myself  the  relief  of  owning  up  to  you  that 
in  a  sense  it  is." 

"Hurray!"  cried  she,  moving  in  her  seat,  agog, 
as  one  who  scented  her  pet  diversion.  "A  love 
affair!  I'll  be  your  confidante.  Tell  me  all  about 
it." 


38  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"Yes,  in  a  sense,  a  love  affair,"  he  confessed. 

"Good — excellent,"  she  approved.  "But — but 
what  do  you  mean  by  'in  a  sense'?" 

"Ah,"  said  he,  darkly  nodding,  "I  mean  whole 
worlds  by  that." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  she,  her  face  prepared 
to  fall. 

"It  isn't  one  woman — it's  a  score,  a  century, 
of  the  dear  things,"  he  announced. 

Her  face  fell.     "Oh—?"  she  faltered. 

"It's  a  love  affair  with  a  type,"  he  explained. 

She  frowned  upon  him.  "A  love  affair  with  a 
type-?" 

"Yes,"  said  he. 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  give  you  up.  In  one 
breath  you  speak  like  a  Mohammedan,  in  the 
next  like — I  don't  know  what." 

"With  these,"  said  John,  his  hand  stretched 
toward  the  wall.  "With  the  type  of  the  Quattro 
cento." 

He  got  upon  his  feet,  and  moved  from  picture 
to  picture ;  and  a  fire,  half  indeed  of  mischief,  but 


PART    FIRST  39 

half  it  may  be  of  real  enthusiasm,  glimmered  in 
his  eyes. 

"With  these  lost  ladies  of  old  years;  these  soft- 
coloured  shadows,  that  were  once  rosy  flesh;  these 
proud,  humble,  innocent,  subtle,  brave,  shy,  pious, 
pleasure-loving  women  of  the  long  ago.  With 
them;  with  their  hair  and  eyes  and  jewels,  their 
tip-tilted,  scornful,  witty  little  noses,  their  'throats 
so  round  and  lips  so  red,'  their  splendid  raiment; 
with  their  mirth,  pathos,  passion,  kindness  and 
cruelty,  their  infinite  variety,  their  undying  youth. 
Ah,  the  pity  of  it!  Their  undying  youth — and 
they  so  irrevocably  dead.  Peace  be  to  their  souls ! 
See,"  he  suddenly  declaimed,  laughing,  "how  the 
sun,  the  very  sun  in  heaven,  is  contending  with 
me,  as  to  which  of  us  shall  do  them  the  greater 
homage,  the  sun  that  once  looked  on  their  living 
forms,  and  remembers — see  how  he  lights  memorial 
lamps  about  them,"  for  the  sun,  reflected  from 
the  polished  floor,  threw  a  sheen  upon  the  ancient 
canvases,  and  burned  bright  in  the  bosses  of  the 
frames.  "Give  me  these,"  he  wound  up,  "a  book 


40  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

or  two,  and  a  jug  of  the  parroco's  'included  wine' 

— my  wilderness  is  paradise  enow." 

Lady  Blanchemain's  eyes,  as  she  listened,  had 
become  deep  wells  of  disappointment,  then  gush 
ing  fountains  of  reproach. 

"Oh,  you  villain!"  she  groaned,  when  he  had 
ended,  shaking  her  pretty  fist.  "So  to  have  raised 
my  expectations,  and  so  to  dash  them! — Do  you 
really  mean,"  still  clinging  to  a  shred  of  hope, 
she  pleaded,  "really,  really  mean  that  there's  no 
— no  actual  woman?" 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  John,  "but  I'm  afraid  I 
really,  really  do." 

"And  you're  not — not  really  in  love  with  any 
one?" 

"No — not  really,"  he  said,  with  a  mien  that 
feigned  contrition. 

"But  at  your  age — how  old  are  you?"  she 
broke  off  to  demand. 

"Somewhere  between  twenty-nine  and  thirty, 
I  believe,"  he  laughed. 

"And  in  such  a  romantic  environment,  and  not 


PART  FIRST  41 

on  account  of  a  woman!  It's  downright  un 
natural,"  she  declared.  "It's  flat  treason  against 
the  kingly  state  of  youth." 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  said  John.  "Yet,  after 
all,  what's  the  good  of  repining?  Nothing  could 
happen  even  if  there  were  a  woman." 

Lady  Blanchemain  looked  alarmed. 

"Nothing  could  happen?  What  do  you  mean? 
You're  not  married?  If  you  are,  it  must  be  se 
cretly,  for  you're  put  down  as  single  in  Burke." 

"To  the  best  of  my  knowledge,"  John  reas 
sured  her,  laughing,  "Burke  is  right.  And  I 
prayerfully  trust  he  may  never  have  occasion  to 
revise  his  statement." 

"For  mercy's  sake,"  cried  she,  "don't  tell  me 
you're  a  woman  hater." 

"That's  just  the  point,"  said  he.  "I'm  an  adorer 
of  the  sex." 

"Well,  then?"  questioned  she,  at  a  loss.  "How 
can  you  'prayerfully'  wish  to  remain  a  bachelor? 
Besides,  aren't  you  heir  to  a  peerage?  What  of 
the  succession?" 


42  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"That's  just  the  point."  he  perversely  ar 
gued.  "And  you  know  there  are  plenty  of  cous 
ins." 

"Just  the  point,  just  the  point,"  fretted  Lady 
Blanchemain.  "What's  just  the  point?  Just  the 
point  that  you  aren't  a  woman  hater? — just  the 
point  that  you're  heir  to  a  peerage  ?  You  talk  like 
Tom  o'  Bedlam." 

"Well,  you  see,"  expounded  John,  unruffled, 
"as  an  adorer  of  the  sex,  and  heir  to  a  peerage, 
I  shouldn't  want  to  marry  a  woman  unless  I  could 
support  her  in  what  they  call  a  manner  becoming 
her  rank — and  I  couldn't." 

"Couldn't?"  the  lady  scoffed.  "I  should  like  to 
know  why  not?" 

"I'm  too — if  you  will  allow  me  to  clothe  my 
thought  in  somewhat  homely  language — too 
beastly  poor." 

"You — poor?"  ejaculated  Lady  Blanchemain, 
falling  back. 

"Ay — but  honest,"  asseverated  John,  to  calm 
her  fears. 


PART    FIRST  43 

She  couldn't  help  smiling,  though  she  resolutely 
frowned. 

"Be  serious,"  she  enjoined  him.  "Doesn't  your 
uncle  make  you  a  suitable  allowance?" 

"I  should  deceive  you,"  answered  John,  "if  I 
said  he  made  me  an  wftsuitable  one.  He  makes  me, 
to  put  it  in  round  numbers,  exactly  no  allowance 
whatsoever." 

"The — old — curmudgeon !"  cried  Lady  Blanche- 
main,  astounded,  and  fiercely  scanning  her  words. 

"No,"  returned  John,  soothingly,  "he  isn't  a 
curmudgeon.  But  he's  a  very  peculiar  man.  He's 
a  Spartan,  and  he  lacks  imagination.  It  has 
simply  never  entered  his  head  that  I  could  need 
an  allowance.  And,  if  you  come  to  that,  I  can't 
say  that  I  positively  do.  I  have  a  tiny  patrimony 
—threepence  a  week,  or  so — enough  for  my 
humble  necessities,  though  scarcely  perhaps  enough 
to  support  the  state  of  a  future  peeress.  No,  my 
uncle  isn't  a  curmudgeon ;  he's  a  very  fine  old  boy, 
of  whom  I'm  immensely  proud,  and  though  I've 
yet  to  see  the  colour  of  his  money,  we're  quite  the 


44  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

best  of  friends.     At  any  rate,  you'll  agree  that 

it  would  be  the  deuce  to  pay  if  I  were  to  fall  in 

love." 

"Ffff,"  breathed  Lady  Blanchemain,  fanning. 
"What  did  I  say  of  an  age  of  prose  and  prudence? 
Yet  you  don't  look  cold-blooded.  What  does 
money  matter?  Dominus  providebit.  Go  read 
Browning.  What's  'the  true  end,  sole  and  single' 
that  we're  here  for?  Besides,  have  you  never 
heard  that  there  are  such  things  as  marriageable 
heiresses  in  the  world?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I've  heard  that,"  John  cheerfully  as 
sented.  "But  don't  they  almost  always  squint  or 
something?  I've  heard,  too,  that  there  are  such 
things  as  tufted  fortune  hunters,  but  theirs  is  a 
career  that  requires  a  special  vocation,  and  I'm 
afraid  I  haven't  got  it." 

"Then  you're  no  true  Marquis  of  Carabas," 
the  lady  took  him  smartly  up. 

"You've  found  me  out — I'm  only  a  faux-mar- 
quis,"  he  laughed. 

"Thrrr,"  breathed  Lady  Blanchemain,  and  for 


PART  FIRST  45 

a  little  while  appeared  lost  in  thought.  By-and- 
by  she  got  up  and  went  to  the  window,  and  stood 
looking  out.  "I  never  saw  a  lovelier  landscape," 
she  said,  musingly.  "With  the  grey  hills,  and  the 
snow-peaks,  and  the  brilliant  sky,  with  the  golden 
light  and  the  purple  shadows,  and  the  cypresses 
and  olives,  with  the  river  gleaming  below  there 
amongst  the  peach-blossoms,  and — isn't  that  a 
blackcap  singing  in  the  mimosa?  It  only  needs  a 
pair  of  lovers  to  be  perfect — it  cries  for  a  pair  of 
lovers.  And  instead  of  them,  I  find — what?  A 
hermit  and  celibate.  Look  here.  Make  a  clean 
breast  of  it.  Are  you  cold-blooded?"  she  asked 
from  over  her  shoulder. 

John  merely  giggled. 

"It  would  serve  you  right,"  said  she,  truc- 
ulently_,  "if  someone  were  to  rub  your  eyes  with 
love-in-idleness,  to  make  you  dote  upon  the  next 
live  creature  that  you  see." 

John  merely  chuckled. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,"  she  proceeded,  "I'm  a  bit 
of  an  old  witch,  and  I'll  risk  a  soothword.  As 


46  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

there  isn't  already  a  woman,  there'll  shortly  be 
one — my  thumbs  prick.  The  stage  is  set,  the 
scene  is  too  appropriate,  the  play's  inevitable.  It 
was  never  in  the  will  of  Providence  that  a  youth 
of  your  complexion  should  pass  the  springtime  in 
a  spot  all  teeming  with  romance  like  this,  and  miss 
a  love  adventure.  A  castle  in  a  garden,  a  flowering 
valley,  and  the  Italian  sky — the  Italian  sun  and 
moon!  Your  portraits  of  these  smiling  dead 
women  too,  if  you  like,  to  keep  your  imagination 
working.  And  blackcaps  singing  in  the  mimosa. 
No,  no.  The  lady  of  the  piece  is  waiting  in  the 
wings — my  thumbs  prick.  Give  her  but  the  least 
excuse,  she'll  enter,  and  ....  Good  heavens, 
my  prophetic  soul!"  she  suddenly,  with  a  sort  of 
catch  in  her  throat,  broke  off. 

She  turned  and  faced  him,  cheeks  flushed,  eyes 
flashing. 

"Oh,   you   hypocrite!     You  monstrous   fibber!" 
she  cried,  on  a  tone  of  jubilation,  looking  daggers. 

"Why?      What's    up?      What's    the    matter?" 
asked  John,  at  fault. 


PART    FIRST  47 

"How  could  you  have  humbugged  me  so?" 
she  wailed,  in  delight,  reverting  to  the  window. 
"Anyhow,  she's  charming.  She's  made  for  the 
part.  I  couldn't  pray  for  a  more  promising 
heroine." 

"She?    Who?"  asked  he,  crossing  to  her  side. 

"Who?  Fie,  you  slyboots!"  she  crowed  with 
glee. 

"Ah,  I  see,"  said  John. 

For,  below  them,  in  the  garden,  just  beyond 
the  mimosa  (all  powdered  with  fresh  gold)  where 
the  blackcap  was  singing,  stood  a  woman. 


IX 


She  stood  in  the  path,  beside  a  sun-dial,  from 
which  she  appeared  to  be  taking  the  time  of  day, 
a  crumbling  ancient  thing  of  grey  stone,  green 
and  brown  with  mosses ;  and  she  was  smiling  pleas 
antly  to  herself  the  while,  all  unaware  of  the 
couple  who  watched  her  from  above.  She  wore  a 


48  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

light-coloured  garden-frock,  and  was  bare-headed, 
as  one  belonging  to  the  place.  She  was  young — 
two  or  three  and  twenty,  by  her  aspect:  young, 
slender,  of  an  excellent  height,  and,  I  hope  you 
would  have  agreed,  a  beautiful  countenance.  She 
studied  the  sun-dial,  and  smiled;  and  what  with 
her  dark  eyes  and  softly  chiselled  features,  the  pale 
rose  in  her  cheeks  and  the  deeper  rose  of  her  mouth, 
with  her  hair  too,  almost  black  in  shadow,  but 
where  the  sun  touched  it  turning  to  sombre  red, — 
yes,  I  think  you  would  have  agreed  that  she  was 
beautiful.  Lady  Blanchemain,  at  any  rate,  found 
her  so. 

"She's  quite  lovely,"  she  declared.  "Her  face 
is  exquisite — so  sensitive,  so  spiritual ;  so  distin 
guished,  so  aristocratic.  And  so  clever,"  she  added, 
after  a  suspension. 

"Mm,"  said  John,  his  forehead  wrinkled,  as  if 
something  were  puzzling  him. 

"She  has  a  figure — she  holds  herself  well,"  said 
Lady  Blanchemain. 

"Mm,"  said  John. 


PART    FIRST  49 

"I  suppose,"  said  she,  "you're  too  much  a  mere 
man  to  be  able  to  appreciate  her  frock?  It's  the 
work  of  a  dressmaker  who  knows  her  business. 
And  that  lilac  muslin  (that's  so  fashionable  now) 
really  does,  in  the  open  air,  with  the  country  for 
background,  show  to  immense  advantage.  Come — 
out  with  it.  Tell  me  all  about  her.  Who  is  she?" 

"That's  just  what  I'm  up  a  tree  to  think," 
said  John.  "I  can't  imagine.  How  long  has  she 
been  there?  From  what  direction  did  she  come?" 

"Don't  try  to  hoodwink  me  any  longer,"  remon 
strated  the  lady,  unbelieving. 

"I've  never  in  my  life  set  eyes  on  her  before," 
he  solemnly  averred. 

She  scrutinised  him  sharply. 

"Hand  on  heart?"  she  doubted. 

And  he,  supporting  her  scrutiny  without  flinch 
ing,  answered,  "Hand  on  heart." 

"Well,  then,"  concluded  she,  with  a  laugh,  "it 
looks  as  if  I  were  even  more  of  an  old  witch  than 
I  boasted — and  my  thumbs  pricked  to  some  pur 
pose.  Here's  the  lady  of  the  piece  already  arrived. 


50  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

There,  she's  going  away.  How  well  she  walks. 
Have  after  her — have  after  her  quick,  and  begin 
your  courtship." 

The  smiling  young  woman,  her  lilac  dress  softly 
bright  in  the  sun,  was  moving  slowly  down  the  gar 
den-path,  toward  the  cloisters;  and  now  she  en 
tered  them,  and  disappeared.  But  John,  instead 
of  "having  after  her,"  remained  at  his  counsellor's 
side,  and  watched. 

"She  came  from  that  low  doorway,  beyond 
there  at  the  right,  where  the  two  cypresses  are ; 
and  she  came  at  the  very  climax  of  my  vaticina 
tion,"  said  her  ladyship.  "Without  a  hat,  you'll 
hardly  dispute  it's  probable  she's  staying  in  the 
house." 

"No — it  certainly  would  seem  so,"  said  John, 
"I'm  all  up  a  tree." 

"The  garden  looks  rather  dreary  and  empty, 
now  that  she  has  left,  doesn't  it?"  she  asked.  "Yet 
it  looked  jolly  enough  before  her  advent.  And 
see — the  lizards  (there  are  four  of  them,  aren't 
there?)  that  whisked  away  from  the  dial  at  her 


PART    FIRST  51 

approach,  have  come  back.  Well,  your  work's  cut 
out.  I  suppose  it  wouldn't  be  possible  for  you  to 
give  a  poor  woman  a  dish  of  tea?" 

"I  was  on  the  very  point  of  proposing  it,"  said 
John.     "May  I  conduct  you  to  my  quarters?" 


PART    SECOND 


Rather  early  next  morning  John  was  walking 
among  the  olives.  He  had  gone  (straight  from 
his  bed,  and  in  perhaps  the  least  considered  of 
toilets:  an  old  frieze  ulster,  ornamented  with  big 
buttons  of  mother-of-pearl,  a  pair  of  Turkish 
slippers,  a  bathing-towel  over  his  shoulder,  and 
for  head-covering  just  his  uncombed  native  thatch) 
for  a  swim,  some  half  a  mile  upstream,  to  a  place 
he  knew  where  the  Rampio — the  madcap  Rampio, 
all  shallows  and  rapids — rests  for  a  moment  in  a 
pool,  wide  and  deep,  translucent,  inviting,  and,  as 
you  perceive  when  you  have  made  your  plunge, 
of  a  most  assertive  chill.  Now  he  was  on  his 
leisurely  way  home,  to  the  presbytery  and  what 
passed  there  for  breakfast. 

The  hill-side   rose   from   the  river's   bank   in  a 
series  of  irregular  terraces,  upheld  by  rough  stone 


PART     SECOND  53 

walls.  The  gnarled  old  trees  bent  toward  each 
other  and  away  like  dwarfs  and  crookbacks  danc 
ing  a  fantastic  minuet;  and  in  the  grass  beneath 
them,  where  the  sun  shot  his  fiery  darts  and  cast 
his  net  of  shadows,  Chloris  had  scattered  innumer 
able  wildflowers:  hyacinths,  the  colour  of  the  sky; 
violets,  that  threaded  the  air  for  yards  about  with 
their  sentiment-provoking  fragrance;  tulips,  red 
and  yellow;  sometimes  a  tall,  imperial  iris;  here 
and  there  little  white  nodding  companies  of  jon 
quils.  Here  and  there,  too,  the  dusty-green  reaches 
were  pointed  by  the  dark  spire  of  a  cypress,  alone, 
in  a  kind  of  glooming  isolation;  here  and  there  a 
blossoming  peach  or  almond,  gaily  pink,  sent  an 
inexpressible  little  thrill  of  gladness  to  one's  heart. 
The  air  was  sweetened  by  many  incense-breathing 
things  besides  the  violets, — by  moss  and  bark,  the 
dew-laden  grass,  the  moist  brown  earth ;  and  it  was 
quick  with  music:  bees  droned,  leaves  whispered, 
birds  called,  sang,  gossiped,  disputed,  and  the 
Rampio  played  a  crystal  accompaniment. 

John    swung    onward    at    ease,    while    lizards, 


54  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

with  tails  that  seemed  extravagantly  long,  fled 
from  before  his  feet,  terrible  to  them,  no  doubt, 
as  an  army  with  banners,  for  his  Turkish  slippers, 
though  not  in  their  pristine  youth,  were  of  scarlet 
leather  embroidered  in  a  rich  device  with  gold. 
And  presently  (an  experience  unusual  at  that  houf 
in  the  olive  wood)  he  became  aware  of  a  human 
voice. 

"Ohe !  My  good  men,  there !  Will  you  be  so 
kind  as  to  gather  me  some  of  those  anemones? 
Here  is  a  lira  for  your  pains." 

It  was  a  feminine  voice;  it  was  youthful  and 
melodious;  it  was  finished,  polished,  delicately 
modulated.  And  its  inflection  was  at  once  confident 
and  gracious, — clearly  the  speaker  took  it  for 
granted  that  she  would  receive  attention,  and  she 
implied  her  thanks  abundantly  beforehand.  It 
was  a  voice  that  evoked  in  the  imagination  a  charm 
ing  picture  of  fresh,  young,  confident,  and  gracious 
womanhood. 

"Hello!"  said  John  to  himself.  "Who  is  there 
in  this  part  of  the  world  with  a  voice  like  that?" 


PART     SECOND  55 

And  he  felt  it  would  not  be  surprising  if  on 
glancing  round  he  should  behold — as,  in  fact, 
he  did — the  stranger  of  yesterday,  the  Unknown  of 
the  garden. 


II 

She  stood  on  one  of  the  higher  terraces  (a  very 
charming  picture  indeed,  bright  and  erect,  in  the 
warm  shadow  of  the  olives),  and  was  calling  down 
to  a  couple  of  peasants  at  work  on  the  other  side 
of  the  stream.  Between  the  thumb  and  forefinger 
of  an  ungloved  fair  right  hand,  she  held  up  a 
silver  lira. 

Anemones,  said  she!  Near  to  where  the  men 
were  working,  by  the  river's  brink,  there  was  a 
space  of  level  ground,  perhaps  a  hundred  feet  long, 
and  tapering  from  half  that  breadth  to  a  point. 
And  this  was  simply  crimson  and  purple  with  a 
countless  host  of  anemones. 

She  called  to  the  men,  and  one  seeing  and  hear 
ing  her  would  have  thought  they  must  abandon 


56  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

everything,  and  spring  to  do  her  bidding.  But 
they  didn't.  Pausing  only  long  enough  to  give 
her  a  phlegmatic  stare,  as  if  in  doubt  whether  con 
ceivably  she  could  have  the  impertinence  to  be  ad 
dressing  them,  and  vouchsafing  not  a  word,  each 
went  calmly  on  with  his  employment; — very,  very 
calmly,  piano,  piano,  gently,  languidly,  filling 
small  baskets  with  fallen  olives,  and  emptying 
them  upon  outspread  canvas  sheets.  There  are, 
and  more's  the  pity,  two  types  of  Italian  peas 
ant.  There's  the  old  type,  which  we  knew  in  our 
youth,  and  happily  it  still  survives  in  some  num 
bers, — the  peasant  who,  for  all  his  rags  and  tatters, 
has  manners  that  will  often  put  one's  own  to  shame, 
and,  with  a  simpatia  like  second-sight,  is  before 
one's  wishes,  in  his  eagerness  to  serve  and  please. 
And  there  is  the  new  type,  which  we  know  to  our 
disgust,  and  unhappily  it  multiplies  like  vermin, — 
the  peasant  who  has  lent  his  ear  to  the  social  demo 
crat,  and,  his  heart  envenomed  by  class  hatred, 
meets  your  civility  with  black  glances  and  the  be 
haviour  of  a  churl  in  the  sulks. 


PART     SECOND  57 

So,  though  her  voice  was  sweet  to  hear,  and 
though,  standing  there  in  the  warm  penumbra  of 
the  olive  orchard,  tall  and  erect  and  graceful,  in 
her  bright  frock,  she  made  a  charming  picture, 
and  though  she  offered  a  silver  lira  as  a  prize,  the 
men  merely  stared  at  her  churlishly,  and  went  on 
with  their  work — languidly,  sluggishly,  as  men 
who  deemed  the  necessity  to  work  an  outrage,  and 
weren't  going  to  condone  it  by  working  with  any 
thing  like  a  will. 

Now,  John  Blanchemain,  as  I  have  previously 
mentioned,  was  an  unself-conscious  sort  of  fellow. 
In  his  unself-consciousness,  forgetting  several 
trifles  that  might  properly  have  weighed  with  him 
(forgetting  the  tarnished  gorgeousness  of  his 
Turkish  slippers  for  example,  and  his  tousled  head, 
and  the  bathing-towel  that  flowed  like  a  piece  of 
classic  drapery  from  his  shoulder),  obeying  im 
pulse  and  instinct,  he  flung  himself  into  the  breach. 
"Brutes,"  he  muttered  between  his  teeth.  Then, 
in  his  easiest  man-of-the-worldy  accents,  "If  you 
can  wait  two  minutes,"  he  called  aloud  to  her. 


58  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

And  therewith  he  went  scrambling  down  the  ter 
races  and  picked  his  way  from  stone  to  stone  across 
the  shallows,  to  the  field  of  anemones,  where  their 
satiny  petals,  like  crisping  wavelets,  all  a-ripple  in 
the  moving  air,  shimmered  with  constantly  chang 
ing  lights.  And  in  a  twinkling  he  had  gathered 
a  great  armful,  and  was  clambering  back. 

"I  beg  of  you,"  he  said,  in  his  abrupt  fashion, 
holding  them  out  to  her,  and  slightly  bowing,  with 
that  nothing-doubting  assurance  of  his,  while  his 
blue  eyes  (to  put  her  entirely  at  her  ease)  smiled, 
frank  and  friendly  and  serene,  into  her  dark  ones. 

But  hers  seemed  troubled.  She  looked  at  the 
flowers,  she  looked  at  John,  I  think  she  even  looked 
at  her  lira.  Her  eyes  seemed  undecided. 

"Do  pray  take  them,"  said  he,  still  smiling,  still 
frank  and  assured,  but  as  if  a  little  puzzled,  a  little 
amused,  by  her  hesitation,  and  more  airily  a  man- 
of-the-world  than  ever,  his  tone  one  of  high  de 
tachment,  to  spare  her  any  possible  feeling  of 
personal  obligation,  and  to  place  his  performance 
in  the  light  of  a  matter  of  course, — as  if  indeed 


PART  SECOND  59 

he  had  done  nothing  more  than  pick  up  and  re 
turn,  say,  a  handkerchief  she  might  have  dropped. 
"You  were  right,"  he  owned  to  his  thought  of 
Lady  Blanchemain ;  "she  is  beautiful."  Here,  at 
close  quarters  with  her,  one's  perception  of  her 
beauty  became  acute, — here,  under  the  grey  old 
trees,  in  the  leafy  dimness,  alone  with  her,  at  two 
paces  from  her,  where  the  birds  sang  and  the  violets 
gave  forth  their  fragrant  breath.  He  saw  that 
her  eyes  were  beautiful  (soft  and  deep  and  lumi 
nous,  despite  their  trouble),  and  her  low  white 
brow,  and  the  dark  masses  of  her  hair,  under  her 
garden-hat,  and  the  rose  in  her  cheeks,  and  the 
red-rose  of  her  mouth.  And  he  saw  and  felt  the 
beauty  and  the  vitality  of  her  strong  young 
body. 

But  meanwhile  she  had  stretched  forth,  rather 
timidly,  that  ungloved  fair  hand  of  hers,  and 
taken  the  flowers. 

"You  are  very  good,  I  am  sure.  Thank  you 
very  much,"  she  said,  rather  faintly,  with  a  grave 
little  inclination  of  the  head. 


60  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

John,  always  with  magnificent  assurance,  put 
up  his  hand,  to  doff  a  man-of-the-worldy  hat,  and 
bow  himself  away; — and  it  encountered  his  bare 
locks,  bare,  and  still  wet  from  recent  ducking. 
Whereupon,  suddenly,  the  trifles  he  had  forgotten 
were  remembered,  and  at  last  (in  the  formula  of 
the  criminologist)  "he  realised  his  position":  hat- 
less  and  uncombed,  with  the  bathing-towel  slung 
from  his  shoulder,  in  that  weather-beaten  old 
frieze  coat  with  its  ridiculous  buttons,  in  those  aw 
ful  Turkish  slippers, — offering,  with  his  grand 
manner,  flowers  to  a  woman  he  didn't  know,  and 
smiling,  to  put  her  at  her  ease!  His  pink  face 
burned  to  a  livelier  pink,  his  ears  went  hot,  his 
heart  went  cold.  The  bow  he  finally  accom 
plished  was  the  blighted  bud  of  the  bow  he 
had  projected;  and,  as  the  earth  didn't,  of  its 
charity,  open  and  engulf  him,  he  hastened  as  best 
he  could,  and  with  a  painful  sense  of  slinking,  to 
remove  his  crestfallen  person  from  her  range  of 
view. 

When  these  unself-conscious  fellows  are  startled 


PART     SECOND  61 

into  self-consciousness,  I  fancy  they  take  it  hard. 
I  don't  know  how  long  it  was  before  John  had 
done  heaping  silent  curses,  silent  but  savage,  upon 
himself,  his  luck,  his  "beastly  officiousness,"  upon 
the  whole  afflicting  incident:  curses  that  he 
couldn't  help  diversifying  now  and  then  with  a 
catch  of  splenetic  laughter,  as  a  vision  of  the  figure 
he  had  cut  would  recurrently 

" flash  upon  that  inward  eye 


Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude." 

"Oh,  you  ape!"  he  groaned.  "Rigged  out  like 
Pudding  Jack,  and,  with  your  ineffable  simagrees, 
offering  a  strange  woman  flowers !" 

If  she  had  only  laughed,  had  only  smiled,  it 
wouldn't  have  been  so  bad,  it  would  have  shown 
that  she  understood.  "But  through  it  all,"  he 
writhed  to  recollect,  "she  was  as  solemn  as  a 
mourner.  I  suppose  she  was  shocked — perhaps 
she  was  frightened — very  likely  she  took  me  for  a 
tramp.  I  wonder  she  didn't  crown  my  beatitude 


62  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

by  giving  me  her  lira.     These   foreigners  do  so 

lack  certain  discernments." 

And  with  that  rather  an  odd  detail  came  back 
to  him.  Was  she  a  foreigner?  For  it  came 
vaguely  back  that  he,  impulsive  and  unthinking, 
had  spoken  to  her  throughout  in  English.  "And 
anyhow," — this  came  distinctly  back, — "it  was 
certainly  in  English  that  she  thanked  me." 


Ill 


What  passed  for  breakfast  at  the  presbytery  was 
the  usual  Continental  evasion  of  that  repast, — 
bread  and  coffee,  despatched  in  your  apartment. 
But  at  noon  the  household  met  to  dine. 

The  dining-room,  on  the  ground  floor,  long 
and  low,  with  a  vaulted  ceiling,  whitewashed,  and 
a  pavement  of  worn  red  tiles,  was  a  clean,  bare 
room,  that  (pervaded  by  a  curious,  dry,  not  un 
pleasant  odour)  seemed  actually  to  smell  of  bare 
ness,  as  well  as  of  cleanliness.  There  was  a  table, 


PART  SECOND  63 

there  was  a  dresser,  there  were  a  few  unpainted 
deal  chairs,  rush-bottomed  (exactly  like  the  chairs 
in  the  church,  in  all  Italian  churches),  and  there 
was  absolutely  nothing  else,  save  a  great  black 
and  white  crucifix  attached  to  the  wall.  But,  by 
way  of  compensation,  its  windows  opened  south 
ward,  flooding  it  with  sunshine,  and  commanding 
the  wonderful  perspective  of  the  valley, — the  blue- 
grey  hills,  the  snow-peaks,  the  blossoming  low 
lands,  and  the  faraway  opalescence  that  you  knew 
to  be  the  lake. 

At  noon  the  parroco,  his  niece  Annunziata, 
and  his  boarder  met  to  dine. 

The  parroco  was  a  short,  stout,  florid,  black- 
haired,  hawk-nosed,  fierce-looking,  still  youngish 
man,  if  five-and- forty  may  be  reckoned  youngish, 
with  a  pair  of  thin  lips  and  powerful  jaws  which, 
for  purposes  of  speech,  he  never  opened  if  he 
could  help  it.  Never, — till  Sunday  came :  when, 
mounting  the  pulpit,  he  opened  them  indeed,  and 
his  pent-up  utterance  burst  forth  in  a  perfect  tor 
rent  of  a  sermon,  a  wild  gush  of  words,  shouted  at 


64  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

the  topmost  stress  of  a  remarkably  lusty  voice* 
arresting  for  a  minute  or  two  by  reason  of  the 
sheer  physical  energy  it  represented,  and  then  for 
a  long  half  hour  exquisitely  tiresome.  But  on 
week-days  he  maintained  a  prodigious  silence,  and 
this  (as,  though  fierce-looking,  he  wasn't  in  the 
least  really  fierce),  it  would  often  be  John's 
malicious  study  to  tempt  him  to  break.  Besides, 
to-day,  John  was  honestly  concerned  with  the  pur 
suit  of  knowledge. 

Accordingly,  grace  being  said,  "You  never  told 
me,"  he  began,  assuming  a  mien  of  intelligent  in 
terest,  "that  the  castle  was  haunted."  He  looked 
at  the  Napoleonic  profile  of  Don  Ambrogio,  but 
from  the  tail  of  his  eye  he  kept  a  watch  as  well 
upon  Annunziata,  and  he  saw  that  that  wise  little 
maiden  became  attentive. 

"No,"  said  Don  Ambrogio,  between  two  spoon 
fuls  of  soup. 

"You  will  conceive  my  astonishment,  then,"  con 
tinued  John,  urbanely,  "when  I  discovered  that  it 


PART     SECOND  65 

"It  isn't,"  said  Don  Ambrogio.  He  gave  him 
self  diligently  to  the  business  of  the  hour;  his 
spoon  flew  backward  and  forward  like  a  shuttle. 
His  napkin,  tucked  into  his  Roman  collar,  pro 
tected  his  bosom,  an  effective  white  cuirass. 

"Oh?  Not  the  castle?"  questioned  John. 
"Only  the  garden?  And  the  olive  wood?  True, 
on  reflection,  I've  never  seen  it  in  the  house." 

"Nothing  here  is  haunted,"  said  the  parroco. 
He  made  a  signal  to  Annunziata,  who  rose  to 
change  the  plates.  Her  big  eyes  were  alight,  her 
serious  little  face  was  alert;  but  she  would  never 
dream  of  speaking  in  the  presence  of  her  uncle. 
Marcella,  the  cook,  brought  in  the  inevitable 
veal. 

"Oh,  for  that,"  insisted  John,  courteous  but 
firm,  "I  beg  your  pardon.  I  myself  have  seen  it 
on  two  occasions;  and,  lest  you  should  fancy  it  a 
subjective  illusion,  I  may  tell  you  that  it  was  yes 
terday  seen  simultaneously  by  another." 

"It?  It?  What  is  it?"  asked  the  parroco,  his 
beaked  and  ensanguined  visage  fiercer-looking 


66  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

than  ever,  as  he  fell  upon  the  inevitable  veal  with 

a  somewhat  dull  carving-knife. 

"Ah,"  said  John,  "now  you  make  me  regret  that 
I  haven't  a  talent  for  word-painting.  It's  the 
form  of  a  woman,  a  young  woman,  tall,  slender,  in 
some  pale  diaphanous  garment,  that  appears  here, 
appears  there,  remaining  distinctly  visible  for 
some  minutes,  and  then  disappears.  No,  it  isn't 
a  subjective  illusion.  And  it  isn't,  either,"  the  un 
scrupulous  creature  added,  after  a  pause,  raising 
his  voice,  and  speaking  with  emphasis,  as  if  to 
repel  the  insinuation,  while  the  darkness  of  dis 
enchantment  swept  the  face  of  Annunziata,  "it 
isn't,  either,  as  some  imaginative  people  might  too 
hastily  conclude,  a  wraith,  a  phantom,  an  insub 
stantial  vapour.  It's  a  real  material  form,  that 
lives  and  breathes,  and  even,  if  driven  to  it,  speaks. 
There's  nothing  supernatural  about  it, — unless, 
indeed,  we  take  the  transcendental  view  that  Na 
ture  herself  is  supernatural.  I  was  wondering, 
Don  Ambrogio,  whether,  without  violating  a  con 
fidence,  you  could  tell  me  whose  form  it  is?" 


PART     SECOND  67 

"Nossignore,"  said  Don  Ambrogio,  economising 
his  breath. 

"Ah,"  sighed  John,  nodding  resignedly,  "I 
feared  as  much.  Divining  that  I  would  institute 
inquiries,  she  has  stolen  a  march  upon  me,  and 
pledged  you  to  secrecy." 

"Nossignore,"  disavowed  Don  Ambrogio,  rais 
ing  eyes  the  sincerity  of  which  there  could  be  no 
suspecting. 

John's  face  took  on  an  expression  of  aggrieved 
surprise. 

"But  then  why  won't  you  tell  me?" 

"I  cannot  tell  you  because  I  do  not  know,"  said 
Don  Ambrogio. 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  John.  "And  yet,"  he  argued 
meditatively,  "that's  hard  to  conceive.  I  don't  for 
a  moment  mean  that  I  doubt  it — but  it's  hard  to 
conceive,  like  the  atomic  theory,  and  some  of  the 
articles  of  religion.  (I  hear,  by-the-bye,  that  the 
scientists  are  throwing  the  atomic  theory  over. 
Oh,  fickle  scientists !  Oh,  shifting  sands  of 
science!)  Surely  there  can't  be  many  such  tall 


68  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

slender  forms,  in  diaphanous  garments,  appearing 
and  disappearing  here  and  there  in  your  parish? 
And  one  would  suppose,  antecedently,  that  you'd 
know  them  all." 

"A  peasant,  a  villager,"  said  Don  Ambrogio. 

"I  put  it  to  you  as  an  observer  of  life,"  said 
John,  "do  peasants,  do  villagers,  wear  diaphanous 
garments  ?" 

"A  visitor,  a  sight-seer,  from  some  place  on  the 
lake,"  said  Don  Ambrogio. 

"I  put  it  to  you  as  a  student  of  probabilities," 
said  John,  "would  a  visitor,  would  a  sight-seer, 
from  some  place  on  the  lake,  walk  in  the  garden 
of  the  castle  without  a  hat?  And  would  she  ap 
pear  at  Sant'  Alessina  on  two  days  in  succes 
sion?" 

But  Don  Ambrogio  had  finished  his  veal,  and 
when  he  had  finished  his  veal  he  always  left  the 
table,  first  twice  devoutly  making  the  sign  of  the 
cross,  and  then,  with  a  bow  to  John,  pronouncing 
the  formula,  "You  will  graciously  permit?  My 
affairs  call  me.  A  thousand  regrets."  To-day 


PART     SECOND  69 

he  slightly  amplified  that  formula.  "A  thousand 
regrets,"  he  said,  "and  as  many  excuses  for  my 
inability  to  afford  the  information  desired." 

After  his  departure,  John  turned  to  Annun- 
ziata,  where,  in  her  grey  cotton  pinafore,  her  lips 
parted,  her  big  eyes  two  lively  points  of  interroga 
tion,  she  sat  opposite  to  him,  impatient  to  take  up 
the  theme. 

"Well,  Mistress  Wisdom !"  he  saluted  her,  smil 
ing,  and  waving  his  hand.  "It  is  a  good  and 
wholesome  thing  for  the  young  to  witness  the  dis 
comfiture  of  the  wicked.  Your  uncle  retreats  with 
flying  colours.  He  made,  to  be  sure,  a  slender 
dinner,  but  that's  his  daily  habit.  If  you  have  tears 
to  shed,  shed  them  for  me.  I  have  made  none  at 
all." 

From  points  of  interrogation,  Annunziata's 
eyes  changed  to  abysses  of  wonder,  and,  big  as  they 
were,  seemed  to  grow  measurably  bigger. 

"You  have  made  no  dinner?"  she  protested,  in 
that  strangely  deep  voice  of  her,  with  its  effect 
of  immense  solemnity. 


70  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"No,  poor  dear,"  said  John,  with  pathos,  "no,  I 
have  made  no  dinner." 

"But  you  have  eaten  a  great  deal,"  exclaimed 
Annunziata,  frowning,  nonplussed.  "And  you 
are  still  eating." 

"Quite  so,"  responded  John,  "though  I  think 
it's  perhaps  the  merest  trifle  unhandsome  of  you 
to  fling  it  in  my  face.  I  have  eaten  a  great  deal, 
and  I  am  still  eating.  That  is  what  I  come  to  table 
for.  In  an  orderly  life  like  mine  there  is  a  place 
for  everything.  I  come  to  table  to  eat,  just  as  I 
go  to  bed  to  sleep  and  to  church  to  say  my  prayers. 
Would  you  have  me  sleep  at  table,  eat  in  church, 
and  say  my  prayers  in  bed?  Eating,  however,  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  case.  I  spoke  of  dining — 
I  said  I  had  not  dined.  Now  you  shall  be  the 
judge.  The  question  is,  can  a  Christian  man  dine 
twice  on  the  same  day  ?  Answer  me  that." 

"Oh,  no,"  answered  Annunziata,  her  pale  face 
very  sober,  and  she  lengthened  out  her  vowels  in 
deprecation  of  the  idea.  "At  least,  it  would  be 
gluttony  if  he  did." 


PART     SECOND  71 

"There  you  are,"  cried  John.  "And  gluttony 
is  not  the  undeadliest  of  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins. 
So,  then,  unless  you  would  have  me  guilty  of  the 
deadly  sin  of  gluttony,  you  must  agree  that  I 
have  not  dined.  For  I  am  going  to  dine  this 
evening.  I  am  going  to  dine  at  the  Hotel  Vic 
toria  at  Roccadoro.  I  am  going  to  dine  with  a 
lady.  I  am  going  to  dine  in  all  the  pomp  and 
circumstance  of  my  dress-suit,  with  a  white  tie 
and  pumps.  And  you  yourself  have  said  it,  a 
Christian  man  may  not,  without  guilt  of  gluttony, 
dine  twice  on  the  same  day.  Therefore  it  is  the 
height  of  uncharitableness,  it's  a  deliberate  im 
putation  of  sin,  to  contend  that  I  have  dined 
already." 

Annunziata  followed  his  reasoning  thoughtful 
ly,  and  then  gravely  set  him  right. 

"No,"  she  said,  with  a  drop  of  the  eyelids  and 
a  quick  little  shake  of  the  head,  "you  do  not 
understand.  I  will  explain."  Her  eyes  were  wide 
open  again,  and  bright  with  zeal  for  his  instruc 
tion.  "You  have  dined  already.  That  is  a  cer- 


72  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

tain  truth,  because  this  meal  is  dinner,  and  you 
have  eaten  it.  But  to-night  you  are  going  to  a 
dinner  of  ceremony — and  that  is  different.  A 
dinner  of  ceremony  does  not  count.  It  is  the 
same  as  a  supper.  My  uncle  himself  once  went 
to  a  dinner  of  ceremony  at  Bergamo.  No,  it  will 
not  be  gluttony  for  you  to  go  to  a  dinner  of 
ceremony." 

"You  speak  like  a  little  pope,"  said  John,  with 
enthusiasm.  "In  matters  of  Faith  and  Morals  I 
believe  you  are  infallible.  If  you  could  guess  the 
load  you  have  lifted  from  my  conscience !"  And 
he  pushed  a  hearty  ouf. 

"I  am  glad,"  said  Annunziata.  And  then  she 
attempted  to  hark  back.  Curiosity  again  light 
ing  her  eyes,  "This  form  that  you  have  seen  in 
the  garden —  "  she  began. 

"Don't  try  to  change  the  subject,"  John  inter 
rupted.  "Let  us  cultivate  sequence  in  our  ideas. 
What  I  am  labouring  with  hammer  and  tongs  to 
drag  from  you  is  the  exact  date  at  which,  some- 


PART     SECOND  73 

where  between  the  years  of  our  salvation  1387 
and  1455,  you  sat  for  your  portrait  to  the  beati 
fied  painter  Giovanni  of  Fiesole.  Now  be  a  duck, 
and  make  a  clean  breast  of  it." 

Annunziata's  eyes  clouded.     A  kind  of  scorn, 

a  kind  of  pity,  and  a  kind  of  patient  longanim- 

« 
ity  looked  from  them. 

"That  is  folly,"  she  said,  on  the  deepest  of  her 
deep  notes,  with  a  succession  of  slow,  reflective, 
sidewise  nods. 

"Folly — ?"  repeated  John,  surprised,  but  bland. 
"Oh?  Really?" 

"Sit  for  my  portrait  between  the  years  1387 
and  1455, — how  could  I?"  scoffed  Annunziata. 

"Why?  What  was  to  prevent  you?"  innocent 
ly  questioned  he. 

"Ma  come!     I  was  not  yet  alive,"  said  she. 

John  looked  at  her  with  startled  eyes,  and  spoke 
with  animation. 

"Weren't  you?  Word  of  honour?  Are  you 
sure?  How  do  you  know?  Have  you  any  defi- 


74  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

nite  recollection  that  you  weren't?  Can  you 
clearly  recall  the  period  in  question,  and  then, 
reviewing  it  in  detail,  positively  attest  that  you 
were  dead?  For  there's  no  third  choice.  A  per 
son  must  either  be  alive  or  dead.  And  how,  if 
you  weren't  alive,  how  ever  did  it  come  to  pass 
that  there  should  be  a  perfect  portrait  of  you 
from  Giovanni's  brush  in  the  Convent  of  Saint 
Mark  at  Florence?  Your  grave  little  white  face, 
and  your  wise  little  big  eyes,  and  your  eager  little 
inquisitive  profile,  and  your  curls  flowing  about 
your  shoulders,  and  your  pinafore  that's  so  like 
a  peplum, — there  they  all  are,  precise!}7  as  I  see 
them  before  me  now.  And  how  was  Giovanni  able 
to  do  them  if  you  weren't  alive?  Perhaps  you 
were  pre-mortally  alive  in  Heaven?  Giovanni's 
cell,  as  is  well  known,  had  a  window  that  opened 
straight  into  Heaven.  Perhaps  he  saw  you 
through  that  window,  and  painted  you  without 
your  knowing  it.  The  name  they  give  your  por 
trait,  by-the-bye,  would  rather  seem  to  confirm 
that  theory.  What  do  you  think  they  call  it? 


PART  SECOND  75 

They  call  it  an  un  anglolo.  I've  got  a  copy  of 
it  in  England.  When  you  come  to  London  to 
visit  the  Queen  I'll  show  it  to  you." 

Annunziata  gave  her  flowing  curls  a  toss. 

"The  form  of  the  young  woman  which  you  have 
seen  in  the  garden — "  she  began  anew. 

"Ah,"  said  John,  "observe  how  differently  the 
big  fish  and  the  little  fish  will  be  affected  by  the 
same  bait." 

"When  you  first  spoke  of  it,"  said  she,  "I 
thought  you  had  seen  a  holy  apparition." 

"Yes,"  said  he.  "That  was  because  I  couched 
my  communication  in  language  designedly  mis 
leading.  I  employed  the  terminology  of  ghost- 
lore.  I  said  'haunted'  and  'appear'  and  things 
like  that.  And  you  were  very  properly  and  nat 
urally  deceived.  I  confidently  expected  that  you 
would  be.  No,  it  is  not  given  to  world-stained 
and  world-worn  old  men  like  me  to  see  holy 
apparitions." 

"Old  men?  You  are  not  an  old  man,"  said  An 
nunziata. 


76  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"Oh?     Not?     What  am  I,  then?"  said  John. 

"You  are  a  middle-aged  man,"  said  she. 

"Thank  you,  Golden  Tongue,"  said  he,  with  a 
bow. 

"And  you  are  sure  that  it  was  merely  a  real 
person?"  she  pursued. 

"No,"  said  he.  "I  am  too  profoundly  imbued 
with  the  basic  principles  of  metaphysics  ever  to 
be  sure  of  the  objective  reality  of  phenomena. 
I  can  only  swear  to  my  impression.  My  im 
pression  was  and  is  that  it  was  merely  a  real 
person." 

"Then,"  said  Annunziata,  with  decision,  "it 
must  be  the  person  who  is  visiting  the  Signora 
Brandi." 

"The  Signora  Brandi?"  repeated  John.  "What 
a  nice  name.  Who  is  the  Signora  Brandi?" 

"She  is  an  Austrian,"  said  Annunziata. 

"Oh—?"  said  John. 

"She  lives  in  the  pavilion  beyond  the  clock- 
tower,"  said  Annunziata. 

"I  wasn't  aware,"  said  John,  "that  the  pavilion 


PART  SECOND  77 

beyond  the  clock-tower  was  inhabited.  I  wasn't 
aware  that  any  part  of  this  castle  was  inhabited, 
except  the  porter's  lodge  and  the  part  that  we 
inhabit.  Why  have  I  been  left  till  now  in  this 
state  of  outer  darkness?" 

"The  Signora  Brandi  has  been  absent,"  said 
Annunziata.  "She  has  been  in  her  own  country 
— in  Austria.  But  the  other  day  she  returned. 
And  with  her  came  a  person  to  visit  her.  That 
is  the  person  whose  form  you  have  seen  in  the 
garden." 

"How  do  you  know  it  wasn't  the  form  of  the 
Signora  Brandi  herself?"  John  said. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Annunziata.  "The  Signora 
Brandi  is  not  young.  She  is  old.  She  is  as  old 
as—" 

"Methusaleh?  Sin?  The  hills?"  suggested 
John,  Annunziata  having  paused  to  think. 

"No,"  said  Annunziata,  repudiating  the  sug 
gestion  with  force.  "No  one  is  so  old  as  Methu 
saleh.  She  is  as  old  as — well,  my  uncle." 

"I  see,"  said  John.  "Yes,  it's  all  highly  mys 
terious." 


78  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"Mysterious?"  said  Annunziata. 

"I  should  think  so,"  asseverated  he.  "Cryptic, 
enigmatic,  esoteric  to  the  last  degree.  To  begin 
with,  how  does  the  Signora  Brandi,  being  an  Aus 
trian,  come  by  so  characteristically  un-Austrian 
a  name?  Is  that  mysterious?  And  in  the  next 
place,  why  does  an  Austrian  Signora  Brandi  so 
far  forget  what  is  due  to  her  nationality  as  to 
live,  not  in  Austria,  but  in  Lombardy?  And — 
as  if  that  were  not  enough — at  Castel  Sant'  Ales- 
sina?  And — as  if  that  were  not  more  than  enough 
— in  the  pavilion  beyond  the  clock?  Come,  come! 
Mysterious !" 

"You  are  living  in  Lombardy,  you  are  living 
at  Castel  Sant'  Alessina,  yourself,"  said  Annun 
ziata. 

"I  hardly  think  so,"  said  John.  "You  can 
scarcely  with  precision  call  this  living — this  is 
rather  what  purists  call  sojourning.  But  even 
were  it  otherwise,  there's  all  the  difference  in  the 
world  between  my  case  and  the  Signora  Brandi's. 
I  am  middle-aged  and  foolish,  but  she  is  as  old 


PART  SECOND  79 

as  your  uncle.  Don't  you  see  the  mysterious  sig 
nificance  of  that  coincidence?  And  I  haven't  a 
young  woman  visiting  me.  Who  is  the  young 
woman?  Is  that  a  mystery?  My  sweet  child,  we 
tread  among  mysteries.  We  are  at  the  centre  of 
a  coil  of  mysteries.  Who  is  the  young  woman? 
And  how — consider  well  upon  this — how  does  it 
happen  that  the  young  woman  speaks  English? 
Mysterious,  indeed!" 

He  rose,  and  bowed,  with  ceremony. 

"But  we  burn  daylight.  I  must  not  detain  you 
longer.  Suffer  me  to  imprint  upon  your  hand 
of  velvet  a  token  of  my  high  regard." 

And  taking  Annunziata's  frail  little  white  hand, 
he  bent  low  to  kiss  it;  and  though  his  blue  eyes 
were  full  of  laughter,  I  think  that  behind  the 
laughter  there  was  a  great  deal  of  real  fondness 
and  admiration. 


80  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 


IV 


Half  way  down  the  long  straight  avenue  of  ilex- 
trees  that  led  from  the  castle  to  the  principal  en 
trance  of  the  garden,  Annunziata,  in  her  pale- 
grey  pinafore  (that  was  so  like  a  peplum),  with 
her  hair  waving  about  her  shoulders,  was  curled 
up  in  the  corner  of  a  marble  bench,  gazing  with 
great  intentness  at  a  white  flower  that  lay  in  her 
lap.  It  was  the  warmest  and  the  peacefulest  mo 
ment  of  the  afternoon.  The  sun  shone  steadily; 
not  a  leaf  stirred,  not  a  shadow  wavered ;  and  the 
intermittent  piping  of  a  blackbird,  somewhere  in 
the  green  world  overhead,  seemed  merely  to  give 
a  kind  of  joyous  rhythm  to  the  silence. 

"Mercy  upon  me!  Who  ever  saw  so  young  a 
maiden  so  deeply  lost  in  thought!"  exclaimed  a 
voice. 

Annunziata,  her  reverie  thus  disturbed,  raised 
a  pair  of  questioning  eyes. 


PART     SECOND  81 

A  lady  was  standing  before  her,  smiling  down 
upon  her,  a  lady  in  a  frock  of  lilac-coloured  mus 
lin,  with  a  white  sunshade. 

Annunziata,  who,  when  she  liked,  could  be 
the  very  pink  of  formal  politeness,  rose,  dropped 
a  courtesy,  and  said:  "Buon  giorno,  Signori- 
na." 

"Buon  giorno,"  responded  the  smiling  lady. 
"Buon  giorno — and  a  penny  for  your  thoughts. 
But  I'm  sure  you  could  never,  never  tell  what  it 
was  you  were  thinking  so  hard  about." 

"Scusi,"  said  Annunziata.  "I  was  trying  to 
think  of  the  name  of  this  flower."  She  stooped 
and  picked  up  the  flower,  which  had  slipped  from 
her  lap  to  the  ground  when  she  rose.  Then  she 
held  it  at  arm's  length,  for  inspection. 

"Oh?"  asked  the  lady,  smiling  at  the  flower, 
as  she  had  smiled  at  its  possessor.  "Isn't  it  a  nar 
cissus?" 

"Yes,"  said  Annunziata.  "It  is  a  narcissus. 
But  I  was  trying  to  think  of  its  particular 


82  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

The  lady  looked  as  if  she  did  not  quite  under 
stand.  "Its  particular  name?" 

"It  is  a  narcissus,"  explained  Annunziata,  "just 
as  I  am  a  girl.  But  it  must  also  have  its  par 
ticular  name,  just  as  I  have  mine.  It  is  a  soul 
doing  its  Purgatory — a  very  good  soul.  If  you 
are  very  good,  then,  when  you  die,  you  do  your 
Purgatory  as  a  flower.  But  it  is  not  such  an 
easy  Purgatory — oh,  no.  For  look:  the  flower  is 
beautiful,  but  it  is  blind,  and  cannot  see;  and  it 
is  fragrant,  but  it  cannot  smell;  and  people  ad 
mire  it  and  praise  it,  but  it  is  deaf,  and  cannot 
hear.  It  can  only  wait,  wait,  wait,  and  think  of 
God.  But  it  is  a  short  Purgatory.  A  few  days, 
and  the  flower  will  fade,  and  the  soul  will  be  re 
leased.  I  think  this  flower's  name  is  Cecilia,  it  is 
so  white." 

The  smile  in  the  lady's  eyes  had  brightened, 
as  she  listened;  and  now  she  gave  a  little  laugh, 
a  little,  light,  musical,  pleased  and  friendly  laugh. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "I  have  sometimes  wondered 
myself  whether  flowers  might  not  be  the  Purga- 


PART  SECOND  83 

tory  of  very  good  souls.  I  am  glad  to  learn 
from  you  that  it  is  true.  And  yes,  I  should  think 
that  this  flower's  name  was  sure  to  be  Cecilia. 
Cecilia  suits  it  perfectly.  What,  if  one  may  ask, 
is  your  particular  name?" 

"Mariannunziata,"  said  its  bearer,  not  to  make 
two  bites  of  a  cherry. 

The  lady's  eyes  grew  round.  "Dear  me!  A 
little  short  name  like  that?"  she  marvelled. 

"No,"  returned  Annunziata,  with  dignity.  "My 
name  in  full  is  longer.  My  name  in  full  is  Giu- 
liana  Falconieri  Maria  Annunziata  Casalone.  Is 
that  not  long  enough?" 

"Yes,"  the  lady  admitted,  "that  is  just  long 
enough."  And  she  laughed  again. 

"What  is  your  name?"  inquired  Annunziata. 

"My  name  is  Maria  Dolores,"  the  lady  answered. 
"You  see,  we  are  both  named  Maria." 

"Of  course,"  said  Annunziata.  "All  Christians 
should  be  named  Maria." 

"So  they  should,"  agreed  the  lady.  "Do  you 
ever  tell  people  how  old  you  are?" 


84  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"Yes,"  said  Annunziata,  "if  they  wish  to  know. 
Why  not?" 

The  smile  in  the  lady's  eyes  shone  brighter  than 
ever.  "Do  you  think  you  could  be  persuaded  to 
tell  me?" 

"With  pleasure,"  said  Annunziata.  "I  am  eleven 
years  and  five  months.  And  you?" 

"I  am  just  twice  as  old.  I  am  twenty-two  years 
and  ten  months.  So,  when  you  are  fifty,  how  old 
shall  I  be?" 

"No,"  said  Annunziata,  shaking  her  head. 
"That  trick  has  been  tried  with  me  before.  My 
friend  Prospero  has  tried  it  with  me.  You  hope 
I  will  say  that  you  will  be  a  hundred.  But  it  is 
not  so.  When  I  am  fifty,  you  will  be  sixty-one, 
going  on  sixty-two." 

Still  again  the  lady  laughed,  apparently  with 
great  amusement. 

"What  a  little  bundle  of  wisdom  you  are!"  she 
exclaimed. 

"Yes.  My  friend  Prospero  also  says  that  I  am 
wise,"  answered  Annunziata.  "I  like  to  see  you 


PART     SECOND  85 

laugh,"  she  mentioned,  looking  critically  at  the 
face  above  her.  "You  have  beautiful  teeth,  they 
are  so  white  and  shining,  and  so  small,  and  your 
lips  are  so  red." 

"Oh,"  said  the  lady,  laughing  more  merrily  than 
ever.  "Then  you  must  be  very  entertaining,  and 
I  will  laugh  a  great  deal." 

Still  looking  critically  at  the  lady's  face,  "Are 
you  not,"  demanded  Annunziata,  "the  person  who. 
has  come  to  visit  the  Signora  Brandi?" 

"SignoraBrandi?"  The  lady  considered.  "Yes, 
I  suppose  I  must  be.  At  any  rate,  I  am  the  per 
son  who  has  come  to  visit  Frau  Brandt." 

"Frao  Branta?  We  call  her  Signora  Brandi 
here,"  said  Annunziata.  "Are  you  related  to 
her?" 

"No,"  said  the  lady,  who  always  seemed  in 
clined  to  laugh,  though  Annunziata  had  no  con 
sciousness  of  being  very  entertaining.  "I  am  not 
related  to  her.  I  am  only  her  friend." 

"She  is  an  Austrian,"  said  Annunziata.  "This 
castle  belongs  to  Austrians.  Once  upon  a  time, 


86  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

very  long  ago,  before  I  was  born,  all  this  coun 
try  belonged  to  Austrians.  Are  you,  too,  an  Aus 
trian?" 

"Yes."  The  lady  nodded.  "I,  too,  am  an  Aus 
trian." 

"And  yet,"  remarked  Annunziata,  "you  speak 
Italian  just  as  I  do." 

"It  is  very  good  of  you  to  say  so,"  laughed 
the  lady. 

"No — it  is  the  truth,"  said  Annunziata. 

"But  is  it  not  good  to  tell  the  truth?"  the  lady 
asked. 

"No,"  said  Annunziata.  "It  is  only  a  duty." 
And  again  she  shook  her  head,  slowly,  darkly, 
with  an  effect  of  philosophic  melancholy.  "That 
is  very  strange  and  very  hard,"  she  pointed  out. 
"If  you  do  not  do  that  which  is  your  duty,  it  is 
bad,  and  you  are  punished.  But  if  you  do  do  it, 
that  is  not  good, — it  is  only  what  you  ought  to 
do,  and  you  are  not  rewarded."  And  she  fetched 
her  breath  in  the  saddest  of  sad  little  sighs.  Then, 
briskly  recovering  her  cheerfulness,  "And  you 
speak  English,  besides,"  she  said. 


PART     SECOND  87 

"Oh?"  wondered  the  lady.  "Are  you  a  clair- 
voyante?  How  do  you  know  that  I  speak  Eng 
lish?" 

"My  friend  Prospero  told  me  so,"  said  Annun- 
ziata. 

"Your  friend  Prospero?"  the  lady  repeated. 
"You  quote  your  friend  Prospero  very  often.  Who 
is  your  friend  Prospero?" 

"He  is  a  signore,"  said  Annunziata.  "He  has 
seen  you,  he  has  seen  your  form,  in  the  garden 
and  in  the  olive  wood." 

"Oh,"  said  the  lady. 

"And  I  suppose  he  must  have  heard  you  speak 
English,"  Annunziata  added.  "He  lives  at  the 
presbytery." 

"And  where,  by-the-bye,  do  you  live?"  asked 
the  lady. 

"I  live  at  the  presbytery,  too,"  said  Annunzi 
ata.  "I  am  the  niece  of  the  parroco.  I  am  the 
orphan  of  his  only  brother.  My  friend  Prospero 
lives  with  us  as  a  boarder.  He  is  English." 

"Indeed?"  said  the  lady.  "Prospero  is  a  very 
odd  name  for  an  Englishman." 


88  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"Prospero  is  not  his  name,"  said  Annunziata. 
"His  name  is  Gian.  That  is  English  for  Gio 
vanni." 

"But  why,  then,"  the  lady  puzzled,  "do  you 
call  him  Prospero?" 

"Prospero  is  a  name  I  have  given  him,"  ex 
plained  Annunziata.  "One  day  I  told  his  for 
tune.  I  can  tell  fortunes — with  olive-stones,  with 
playing-cards,  or  from  the  lines  of  the  hand.  I 
will  tell  you  yours,  if  you  wish.  Well,  one  day, 
I  told  Prospero's,  and  everything  came  out  so 
prosperously  for  him,  I  have  called  him  Prospero 
ever  since.  He  will  be  rich,  though  he  is  poor ; 
and  he  will  marry  a  dark  woman,  who  will  also 
be  rich;  and  they  will  have  many,  many  children, 
and  live  in  peace  to  the  end  of  their  lives.  But 
there!"  Annunziata  cried  out  suddenly,  with  ex 
citement,  waving  the  hand  that  held  her  narcis 
sus.  "There  is  my  friend  Prospero  now,  coming  . 
in  the  gig." 

Down  the  avenue,  sure  enough,  a  gig  was  com 
ing,  a  sufficiently  shabby,  ancient  gig,  drawn, 


PART     SECOND  89 

however,  at  a  very  decent  pace  by  a  very  de 
cent-looking  horse,  and  driven  by  John  Blanche- 
main. 

"Ciao,  Prospero!"  called  Annunziata,  as  he 
passed. 

And  John  took  off  his  hat,  a  modish  Panama, 
and  bowed  and  smiled  to  her  and  to  the  lady. 
And  one  adept  in  reading  the  meaning  of  smiles 
might  have  read  three  or  four  separate  meanings 
in  that  smile  of  his.  It  seemed  to  say  to  An 
nunziata,  "Ah,  you  rogue!  So  already  you  have 
waylaid  her,  and  made  her  acquaintance."  To 
the  lady:  "I  congratulate  you  upon  your  compan 
ion.  Isn't  she  a  diverting  little  monkey?"  To 
himself:  "And  I  congratulate  you,  my  dear,  upon 
being  clothed  and  in  your  right  mind,  and  upon 
having  a  proper  hat  to  make  your  bow  with." 
And  to  the  universe  at  large :  "By  Jove,  she  is  good- 
looking.  Standing  there  before  that  marble  bench, 
in  the  cool  green  light,  under  the  great  ilexes, 
with  her  lilac  frock  arid  her  white  sunshade,  and 
Annunziata  all  in  grey  beside  her, — what  a  sub- 


90  MY  FRIEND   PROSPERO 

ject  for  a  painting,  if  only  there  were  any  paint 
ers  who  knew  how  to  paint!" 

"He  is  going  to  a  dinner  at  Roccadoro,"  said 
Annunziata,  while  John's  back  grew  small  and 
smaller  in  the  distance.  "Did  you  see,  he  had  a 
portmanteau  under  the  seat?  He  is  going  to  a 
dinner  of  ceremony,  and  he  will  have  his  costume 
of  ceremony  in  the  portmanteau.  I  wonder  what 
he  will  bring  back  with  him  for  me.  When  he 
goes  to  Roccadoro  he  always  brings  something 
back  for  me.  Last  time  it  was  a  box  of  chocolate 
cigars.  I  should  like  to  see  him  in  his  costume  of 
ceremony.  Wouldn't  you?" 

But  the  lady  merely  laughed.  And  then,  tak 
ing  Annunziata's  chin  in  her  hand,  she  looked 
down  into  her  big  clear  e}res,  and  said,  "I  must 
be  off  now,  to  join  Signora  Brandi.  But  I  can 
not  leave  without  telling  you  how  glad  I  am  to 
have  met  you,  and  what  pleasure  I  have  derived 
from  your  conversation.  I  hope  we  shall  meet 
often.  Good-bye." 

"Good-bye,   Signorina,"   said  Annunziata,   be- 


PART  SECOND  91 

coming  formally  polite  again.  "I  shall  always 
be  at  your  service."  And  she  dropped  another 
courtesy.  "If  you  will  come  to  see  me  at  the 
presbytery,"  she  hospitably  added,  "I  will  show 
you  my  tame  kid." 

"You  are  all  that  is  most  kind,"  responded  the 
lady,  and  went  off  smiling  toward  the  castle. 

Annunziata  curled  herself  up  in  her  old  corner 
of  the  marble  bench,  and  appeared  to  relapse  into 
profound  thought. 

V 

A  curious  little  intimate  inward  glow,  a  sense, 
somewhere  deep  down  in  his  consciousness,  of  ela 
tion  and  well-being,  accompanied  John  all  the 
way  to  Roccadoro,  mingling  with  and  sweetening 
whatever  thoughts  or  perceptions  occupied  his 
immediate  attention.  This  was  a  "soul-state" 
that  he  knew  of  old,  and  he  had  no  difficulty  in 
referring  it  to  its  cause.  It  was  the  glow  and 
the  elation  which  he  was  fortunate  enough  al- 


92  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

ways  to  experience  when  his  eye  had  been  fed 
with  a  fresh  impression  of  beauty;  and  he  knew 
that  he  owed  it  to-day  to  the  glimpse  he  had  had, 
in  the  cool  light  under  the  ilexes,  of  a  slender 
figure  in  lilac  and  a  tiny  figure  in  grey,  beside 
a  soft-complexioned  old  marble  bench  in  the  midst 
of  a  shadowy,  sunny,  brown  and  green  Italian 
garden. 

The  drive  to  Roccadoro  from  Sant'  Alessina  is 
a  pleasant  drive.  The  road  follows  for  the  most 
part  the  windings  of  the  Rampio,  so  that  you 
are  seldom  out  of  sight  of  its  gleaming  waters, 
and  the  brawl  of  it,  now  louder,  now  less  loud,  is 
perpetually  in  your  ears.  To  right  and  left  you 
have  the  tender  pink  of  blossoming  almonds,  with 
sometimes  the  scarlet  flame  of  a  pomegranate ;  and 
then  the  blue-grey  hills,  mantled  in  a  kind  of 
transparent  cloth-of-gold,  a  gauze  of  gold,  woven 
of  haze  and  sunshine;  and  then,  rosy  white,  with 
pale  violet  shadows,  the  snow-peaks,  cut  like  cam 
eos  upon  the  brilliant  azure  of  the  sky.  And 
sometimes,  of  course,  you  rattle  through  a  vil- 


PART     SECOND  93 

lage,  with  its  crumbling,  stained,  and  faded  yel 
low-stuccoed  houses,  its  dazzling  white  canvas 
awnings,  its  church  and  campanile,  and  its  life 
that  seems  to  pass  entirely  in  the  street:  men  in 
their  shirt-sleeves,  lounging,  smoking,  spitting 
(else  the  land  were  not  Italy!),  or  perhaps  play 
ing  cards  at  a  table  under  the  leafless  bush  of  the 
wine-shop ;  women  gossiping  over  their  needlework, 
or,  gathered  in  sociable  knots,  combing  and  bind 
ing  up  their  sleek  black  hair;  children  sprawling 
in  the  kindly  dirt;  the  priest,  biretta  on  head, 
nose  in  breviary,  drifting  slowly  upon  some  priest 
ly  errand,  and  "getting  through  his  office";  and 
the  immemorial  goatherd,  bare-legged,  in  a  tat 
tered  sugar-loaf  hat,  followed  by  his  flock,  with 
their  queer  anxious  faces,  blowing  upon  his  Pan's- 
pipes  (shrill  strains,  in  minor  mode  and  plagal 
scale,  a  music  older  than  Theocritus),  or  stopping, 
jealously  watched  by  the  customer's  avid  Italian 
eyes,  to  milk  "per  due  centesimi" — say,  a  far 
thing's  worth — into  an  outstretched,  close-clutched 
jug.  Sometimes  the  almond  orchards  give  place 


94  MY   FRIEND    PROSPERO 

to  vineyards,  or  to  maize  fields,  or  to  dusky  groves 
of  walnut,  or  to  plantations  of  scrubby  oak  where 
lean  black  pigs  forage  for  the  delectable  acorn. 
Sometimes  the  valley  narrows  to  a  ravine,  and 
signs  of  cultivation  disappear,  and  the  voice  of  the 
Rampio  swells  to  a  roar,  and  you  become  aware, 
between  the  hills  that  rise  gloomy  and  almost  sheer 
beside  you,  of  a  great  solitude:  a  solitude  that  is 
intensified  rather  than  diminished  by  the  sight  of 
some  lonely — infinitely  lonely — grange,  perched  far 
aloft,  at  a  height  that  seems  out  of  reach  of  the 
world.  What  possible  manner  of  human  beings, 
you  wonder,  can  inhabit  there,  and  what  possible 
dreary  manner  of  existence  can  they  lead?  But 
even  in  the  most  solitary  places  you  are  welcomed 
and  sped  on  by  a  chorus  of  bird-songs.  The  hill 
sides  resound  with  bird-songs  continuously  for  the 
whole  seven  miles, — and  continuously,  at  this  sea 
son,  for  the  whole  four-and-twenty  hours.  Black 
birds,  thrushes,  blackcaps,  goldfinches,  chaffinches, 
sing  from  the  first  peep  of  dawn  till  the  last  trace 
of  daylight  has  died  out,  and  then  the  nightingales 


PART     SECOND  95 

begin  and  keep  it  up  till  dawn  again.  And  every 
where  the  soft  air  is  aromatic  with  a  faint  scent 
of  rosemary,  for  rosemary  grows  everywhere  un 
der  the  trees.  And  everywhere  you  have  the  pu 
rity  and  brilliancy  and  yet  restraint  of  colour,  and 
the  crisp  economy  of  line,  which  give  the  Italian 
landscape  its  look  of  having  been  designed  by  a 
conscious  artist. 

In  and  through  his  enjoyment  of  all  these  pleas 
antnesses,  John  felt  that  agreeable  glow  which  he 
owed  to  his  glimpse  of  the  woman  in  the  garden ; 
and  when  at  last  he  reached  the  Hotel  Victoria, 
and,  having  dressed,  found  himself  alone  for  a 
few  moments  with  Lady  Blanchemain,  in  the  dim 
and  cool  sitting-room  where  she  awaited  her  guests, 
he  hastened  to  let  her  know  that  he  shared  her 
own  opinion  of  the  woman's  charms. 

"Your  beauty  decidedly  is  a  beauty,"  he  de 
clared.  "I  wish  you  could  have  seen  her  as  I  saw 
her  an  hour  ago,  with  a  white  sunshade,  against 
a  background  of  ilexes.  It's  a  thousand  pities 
that  painting  should  be  a  forgotten  art." 


96  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

But  Lady  Blanchemain  (magnificent  in  purple 
velvet,  with  diamonds  round  her  throat  and  in 
her  hair)  didn't  seem  interested. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "I  made  yesterday 
one  of  the  most  ridiculous  blunders  of  my  life. 
It's  been  preying  upon  my  mind  ever  since.  I 
generally  have  pretty  trustworthy  perceptions, 
and  perhaps  this  is  a  symptom  of  failing  powers. 
I  told  myself  positively  that  you  were  an  Eton 
and  Balliol  man.  It  never  occurred  to  me  till  I 
was  half  way  home  that,  as  a  Papist,  you'd  be 
nothing  of  the  sort." 

"No,"  said  John;  "I'm  afraid  I'm  Edgbaston 
and  Paris.  The  way  her  hair  grows  low  about 
her  brow,  and  swoops  upward  and  backward  in 
a  sort  of  tidal  wave,  and  breaks  loose  in  little 
curling  tendrils, — it's  absolutely  lyrical.  And  the 
smile  at  the  bottom  of  her  eyes  is  exactly  like 
silent  music.  And  her  mouth  is  a  couplet  in 
praise  of  love,  with  two  red  lips  for  rhymes.  And 
her  chin  is  a  perfect  epithalamium  of  a  chin.  And 
then  her  figure!  And  then  her  lilac  frock!  Oh, 


PART    SECOND  97 

it's  a  thousand  thousand  pities  that  painting 
should  be  a  forgotten  art." 

"What,  the  same  lilac  frock?"  said  Lady 
Blanchemain,  absently.  "Yet  you  certainly  have 
the  Eton  voice,"  she  mused.  "And  if  I  don't 
pay  you  the  doubtful  compliment  of  saying  that 
you  have  the  Balliol  manner,  you  have  at  least  a 
kind  of  subtilised  reminiscence  of  it." 

"I  must  keep  a  guard  upon  myself,"  said  John. 
66  She's  visiting  an  Austrian  woman  who  lives  in 
a  remote  wing  of  the  castle, — the  pavilion  beyond 
the  clock,  in  fact, — an  Austrian  woman  of  the 
exhilarating  name  of  Brandi." 

"I'm  rather  in  luck  for  my  dinner  to-night," 
said  Lady  Blanchemain.  "I've  got  Agnes  Scope, 
the  niece  of  the  Duke  of  Wexmouth.  She  ar 
rived  here  this  morning  with  her  aunt,  Lady 
Louisa.  Of  course  I'm  putting  you  next  to  her. 
As,  besides  being  an  extremely  nice  girl  and  an 
heiress,  she's  an  ardent  pervert  to  Romanism, — 
well,  a  word  to  the  wise." 

"Yes,  I  know  her,"  said  John.     "We  don't  get 


98  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

on  a  bit.  She  moves  on  far  too  high  a  plane 
for  a  groundling  like  me.  She's  intellectual  and 
earnest,  and  my  ignorance  and  light-mindedness 
wound  her  to  the  quick.  She'll  end,  as  I've  told 
her  to  her  face,  by  writing  books, — serious  novels, 
probably, — which  she'll  illuminate  with  beautiful 
irrelevant  quotations  from  Browning  and  Cardinal 
Newman." 

"Bother,"  said  Lady  Blanchemain.  "You're 
perverse." 

"Besides,"  said  John,  "she's  engaged." 

"Engaged — ?"  faltered  Lady  Blanchemain. 

"Yes — to  an  intellectual  and  earnest  man,  named 
Bernard  Blake — a  grandson  of  the  famous  Blake 
of  Cambridge." 

Lady  Blanchemain  fixed  him  with  darkening 
eyes. 

"Are  you  sure?"  she  pleaded. 

"I  saw  it  officially  stated  in  the  Morning  Post" 
was  John's  relentless  answer. 

"What  a  nuisance,"  said  Lady  Blanchemain, 
fanning.  Her  fan  was  of  amber  tortoise-shell, 


PART  SECOND  99 

with  white  ostrich  feathers,  and  the  end  sticks  bore 
her  cypher  and  coronet  in  gold. 

"What  a  jolly  fan,"  said  John. 

"Well,  well,"  said  Lady  Blanchemain,  reconcil 
ing  herself.  Then,  after  an  instant  of  pensive- 
ness,  "So  you're  already  laid  low  by  her  beauty. 
But  you  haven't  found  out  yet  who  she  is?" 

"Who  who  is?"  said  John,  looking  all  at  sea. 

"Tut.  Don't  tease.  Your  woman  at  the  cas 
tle." 

"My  woman  at  the  castle  appeared  to  leave  you 
cold,"  he  complained.  "I  arrived  full  of  her,  and 
you  wouldn't  listen." 

"So  you're  already  in  love  with  her?"  said 
Lady  Blanchemain. 

"No — not  yet,"  said  he.  "As  yet  I  merely  rec 
ognise  in  her  admirable  material  for  a  painting, 
and  regret  that  such  material  should  go  begging 
for  the  lack  of  a  painter.  But  by  this  time  to 
morrow — who  can  tell?" 

"Have  you  found  out  who  she  is?"  asked  Lady 
Blanchemain. 


100  MY   FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"No — not  yet,"  said  he.  "As  yet  I've  merely 
found  out  that  she's  visiting  an  Austrian  Signora 
Brandi,  who  lives  (I  can't  think  why)  in  the  pa 
vilion  beyond  the  clock.  But  by  this  time  to 
morrow — !"  His  gesture  spoke  volumes  of  pro 
spective  information. 

"She  looked  like  a  gentlewoman,"  reflected  his 
friend. 

"For  all  the  world,"  said  he. 

"Yet,  if  she's  an  Austrian —  She  paused  and 
pondered. 

"Why?     What's  the  difficulty?"  said  he. 

"To  know  whether  she  is  foor/z,"  said  Lady 
Blanchemain.  "Among  Austrians,  unless  you're 
born,  you're  impossible,  you're  nowhere.  Brandi 
doesn't  sound  born,  does  it?  We  mustn't  let  you 
become  enamoured  of  her  if  she  isn't  born." 

"Brandi  sounds  tremendously  tmborn,"  assented 
John.  "And  if  like  visits  like,  Signora  Brandi's 
visitor  will  probably  be  unborn  too.  But  to  me 
that  would  rather  add  an  attraction, — provided 
she's  bred.  I'm  not  an  Austrian.  I'm  a  Briton 


PART  SECOND  £  i  :  i J  V  '  .  JO1 , 
and  a  democrat.  I  feel  it  is  my  destiny,  if  ever 
I  am  to  become  enamoured  at  all,  to  become  enam 
oured  of  the  daughter  of  a  miller, — of  a  rising 
miller,  who  has  given  his  daughter  advantages. 
'Bred,  not  Born :  or  the  Lady  of  the  Mill'— that 
shall  be  the  title  of  my  humble  heart-history.  If 
this  woman  could  prove  to  me  that  she  was  the 
daughter  of  a  miller,  I'm  not  sure  I  shouldn't 
become  enamoured  of  her  on  the  spot.  Well,  I 
shall  know  to-morrow.  By  this  time  to-morrow 
I  shall  possess  her  entire  dossier.  It  may  interest 
you  to  learn  that  I  am  employing  a  detective  to 
investigate  her." 

"A  detective?  What  do  you  mean?"  said  Lady 
Blanchemain. 

"A  private  detective,  a  female  detective,  whom, 
the  next  time  you  come  to  Sant'  Alessina,  I'll  in 
troduce  to  you,"  said  John. 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean?"  said  Lady 
Blanchemain. 

"The  most  amusing,  the  most  adorable  little  de 
tective  unhung,"  said  he.  "People  are  all  love 


.102  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

and  laughter  whenever  they  look  at  her.  She'll 
worm  its  inmost  secrets  from  my  sphinx's  heart." 

"What  pleasure  can  you  take  in  practising  upon 
a  poor  old  woman  who  only  by  a  sort  of  fluke  isn't 
your  grandmother?"  said  she. 

"Lady  Louisa  FitzStephen,  Miss  Scope,"  said 
her  servant,  opening  the  door. 


VI 


The  nightingales  sang  him  home,  and  the  moon 
lighted  him,  the  liquid  moon  of  April  and  Italy. 
As  he  approached  the  castle,  through  the  purple 
and  silver  garden,  amid  the  mysterious  sweet 
odours  of  the  night,  he  glanced  up  vaguely  at 
the  pavilion  beyond  the  clock.  He  glanced  up 
vaguely,  but  next  second  he  was  no  longer  vague. 
There,  on  a  low-hung  balcony,  not  ten  feet 
above  him,  full  in  the  moonlight,  stood  a  figure 
in  white — all  in  white,  with  a  scarf  of  white  lace 
thrown  over  her  dark  hair.  The  nightingales 


PART  SECOND  103 

sang  and  sobbed,  the  moon  rained  its  amethys 
tine  fire  upon  the  earth,  the  earth  gave  forth  its 
mysterious  sweet  night  odours,  and  she  stood 
there  motionless,  and  breathed  and  gazed  and 
listened. 

But  at  the  sound  of  wheels  in  the  avenue,  she 
turned  slightly,  and  looked  down.  Her  face  was 
fair  and  delicate  and  pure  in  the  moonlight,  and 
her  eyes  shone  darkly  bright. 

She  turned,  and  looked  down,  and  her  eyes  met 
John's. 

"Given  the  hour  and  the  place,  I  wonder  whether 
I  ought  to  bow,"  he  thought. 

Before  he  could  make  up  his  mind,  however, 
his  hand  had  automatically  raised  his  hat. 

She  inclined  her  head  in  acknowledgment,  and 
something  softly  changed  in  her  face. 

"She  smiled!"  he  said,  and  caught  his  breath, 
with  a  kind  of  astonished  exultancy. 

That  soft  change  in  her  face  came  and  went 
and  came  again  through  all  his  dreams. 


PART    THIRD 


"Good  morning,  Prospero,"  said  Annunziata. 

"Good  morning,  Wide-awake,"  responded  John. 

He  was  in  the  octagonal  room  on  the  piano 
nobile  of  the  castle,  where  his  lost  ladies  of  old 
years  smiled  on  him  from  their  frames.  He  had 
heard  an  approaching  patter  of  feet  on  the  pave 
ment  of  the  room  beyond;  and  then  Annunziata's 
little  grey  figure,  white  face,  and  big  grave  eyes, 
had  appeared,  one  picture  the  more,  in  the  vast 
carved  and  gilded  doorway. 

"I  have  been  looking  everywhere  for  you,"  she 
said,  plaintive. 

"Poor  sweetheart,"  he  commiserated  her.  "And 
can't  you  find  me?" 

"I  couldn't,"  said  Annunziata,  bearing  on  the 
tense.  "But  I  have  found  you  now." 

"Oh?     Have  you?     Where?"  asked  he. 
104 


PART    THIRD  105 

"WT&ref"  cried  she,  with  a  disdainful  movement. 
"But  here,  of  course." 

"I  wouldn't  be  too  cocksure  of  that,"  he  cau 
tioned  her.  "Here  is  a  mighty  evasive  bird.  For, 
suppose  we  were  elsewhere,  then  there  would  be 
here,  and  here  would  be  somewhere  else." 

"No,"  said  Annunziata,  with  resolution.  "Where 
a  person  is,  that  is  always  here." 

"You  speak  as  if  a  person  carried  his  here  with 
him,  like  his  hat,"  said  John. 

"Yes,  that  is  how  it  is,"  said  Annunziata,  nod 
ding. 

"You  have  a  remarkably  solid  little  head, — for 
all  its  curls,  there's  no  confusing  it,"  said  he. 
"Well,  have  you  your  report,  drawn  up,  signed, 
sealed,  sworn  to  before  a  Commissioner  for  Oaths, 
and  ready  to  be  delivered?" 

"My  report — ?"  questioned  Annunziata,  with  a 
glance. 

"About  the  Form,"  said  John.  "I  caught 
you  yesterday  red-handed  in  the  fact  of  pump 
ing  it." 


106  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"Yes,"  said  Annunziata.  "Her  name  is  Maria 
Dolores." 

"A  most  becoming  name,"  said  he. 

"She  is  very  nice,"  said  Annunziata. 

"She  looks  very  nice,"  said  he. 

"She  is  twenty-two  years  and  ten  months  old," 
continued  his  informant. 

"Fancy.  As  middle-aged  as  that,"  commented 
he. 

"Yes.     She  is  an  Austrian." 

"Ah." 

"And  as  I  told  you,  she  is  visiting  the  Signora 
Brandi.  Only,  she  calls  her  Frao  Branta." 

"Frao  Branta?"  John  turned  the  name  on  his 
tongue.  "Branta?  Branta?"  What  familiar 
German  name,  at  the  back  of  his  memory,  did 
it  half  evoke?  Suddenly  he  had  a  flash.  "Can 
you  possibly  mean  Frau  Brandt?" 

Annunziata  gave  a   gesture  of  affirmation. 

"Yes,  that  is  it,"  she  said.  "You  sound  it  just 
as  she  did!" 

"I  see,"  said  John.     "And  Brandt,  if  there  are 


PART  THIRD  107 

degrees  of  unbirth,  is  even  more  furiously  unborn 
than  Brandi." 

"Unborn — ?"  said  Annunziata,  frowning. 

"Not  noble — not  of  the  aristocracy,"  John  ex 
plained. 

"Very  few  people  are  noble,"  said  Annunziata. 

"All  the  more  reason,  then,  why  you  and  I  should 
be  thankful  that  we  are,"  said  he. 

"You  and  I?"  she  expostulated,  with  a  shrug  of 
her  little  grey  shoulders.  "Mache!  We  are  not 
noble." 

"Aren't  we?  How  do  you  know?"  asked  John. 
"Anyhow,"  he  impressively  moralised,  "we  can  try 
to  be." 

"No,"  said  she,  with  conclusiveness,  with  fatalism. 
"It  is  no  good  trying.  Either  you  are  noble  or  sim 
ple, — God  makes  you  so, — you  cannot  help  it.  If  I 
were  noble,  I  should  be  a  contessina.  If  you  were 
noble,  you  would  be  a  gransignore." 

"And  my  unassuming  appearance  assures  you 
that  I'm  not  ?"  said  he,  smiling. 

"If  you  were  a  gransignore,"  she  instructed  him, 


108  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"you  would  never  be  such  friends  with  me — you 

would  be  too  proud." 

John  laughed. 

"You  judge  people  by  the  company  they  keep. 
Well,  I  will  apply  the  same  principle  of  judgment 
to  your  gossip,  Maria  Dolores.  By-the-bye,"  he 
broke  off  to  inquire,  "what  is  her  Pagan  name?" 

"Her  Pagan  name?  What  is  that?"  asked  An- 
nunziata. 

"Maria  Dolores,  I  take  it,  is  her  Christian  name, 
come  by  in  Holy  Baptism,"  said  John.  "But  I  sup 
pose  she  will  have  a  Pagan  name,  come  by  in  the  way 
of  the  flesh,  to  round  it  off  with, — just  as,  for  in 
stance,  a  certain  flame  of  mine,  whose  image,  when 
I  die,  they'll  find  engraved  upon  my  heart,  has  the 
Pagan  name  of  Casalone." 

Annunziata  looked  up,  surprised.  "Casalone? 
That  is  my  name,"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  said  John.    "Yours  will  be  the  image." 

Annunziata  gave  her  head  a  toss.  "Maria  Do 
lores  did  not  tell  me  her  Pagan  name,"  she  said. 

"At  any  rate,"  said  he,  "to  judge  by  the  company 


PART    THIRD  109 

she  keeps,  we  may  safely  classify  her  as  unborn.  She 
is  probably  the  daughter  of  a  miller, — of  a  miller 
(to  judge  also  a  little  by  the  frocks  she  wears)  in 
rather  a  large  way  of  business,  who  (to  judge  finally 
by  her  cultivated  voice,  her  knowledge  of  languages, 
and  her  generally  distinguished  air)  has  spared  no 
expense  in  the  matter  of  her  education.  I  shouldn't 
wonder  a  bit  if  she  could  even  play  the  piano." 

"No,"  agreed  Annunziata,  "that  is  very  likely. 
But  why" — she  tilted  upward  her  inquisitive  little 
profile — "why  should  you  think  she  is  the  daughter 
of  a  miller?" 

"Miller,"  said  John,  "I  use  as  a  generic  term. 
Her  father  may  be  a  lexicographer  or  a  drysalter,  a 
designer  of  dirigible  balloons  or  a  manufacturer  of 
air-pumps ;  he  may  even  be  a  person  of  independent 
means,  who  lives  in  a  big,  new,  stuccoed  villa  in  the 
suburbs  of  Vienna,  and  devotes  his  leisure  to  the 
propagation  of  orchids:  yet  all  the  while  a  miller. 
By  miller  I  mean  a  member  of  the  Bourgeoisie:  a 
man  who,  though  he  be  well-to-do,  well-educated, 
well-bred,  does  not  bear  coat-armour,  and  is  there- 


110  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

fore  to  be  regarded  by  those  who  do  with  their 
noses  in  the  air, — especially  in  Austria.  Among 
Austrians,  unless  you  bear  coat-armour,  you're 
impossible,  you're  nowhere.  We  mustn't  let  you 
become  enamoured  of  her  if  she  doesn't  bear  coat- 
armour." 

Annunziata's  eyes,  during  this  divagation,  had 
wandered  to  the  window,  the  tall  window  with  its 
view  of  the  terraced  garden,  where  the  mimosa 
bloomed  and  the  blackcaps  carolled.  Now  she 
turned  them  slowly  upon  John,  and  he  saw  from 
their  expression  that  at  last  she  was  coming  to  what 
for  her  (as  he  had  known  all  along)  was  the  real 
preoccupation  of  the  moment.  They  were  im 
mensely  serious,  intensely  concerned,  and  at  the  same 
time,  in  their  farther  recesses,  you  felt  a  kind  of 
fluttering  shyness,  as  if  I  dare  not  were  hanging 
upon  I  would. 

"Tell  me,"  she  began,  on  a  deep  note,  a  deep  coax 
ing  note  .  .  .  Then  I  dare  not  got  the  better, 
and  she  held  back  .  .  .  Then  /  would  took  his 
courage  in  both  hands,  and  she  plunged.  "What 


PART  THIRD  111 

have  you  brought  for  me  from  Roccadoro?"  And 
after  one  glance  of  half  bashful,  all  impassioned 
supplication,  she  let  her  eyes  drop,  and  stood  be 
fore  him  suspensive,  as  one  awaiting  the  word  of 
destiny. 

John's  "radiant  blondeur,"  his  yellow  beard,  pink 
face,  and  sea-blue  eyes,  lighted  up,  more  radiant 
still,  with  subcutaneous  laughter. 

"The  shops  were  shut,"  he  said.  "I  arrived  after 
closing  time." 

But  something  in  his  tone  rendered  this  grim  an 
nouncement  nugatory.  Annunziata  drew  a  long 
breath,  and  looked  up  again.  "You  have  brought 
me  something,  all  the  same,"  she  declared  with  con 
viction;  and  eagerly,  eyes  gleaming,  "What  is  it? 
What  is  it  ?"  she  besought  him. 

John  laughed.  "You  are  quite  right,"  he  said. 
"If  one  can't  buy,  beg,  or  borrow,  in  this  world,  one 
can  generally  steal." 

Annunziata  drew  away,  regarded  him  with  mis 
giving.  "Oh,  no ;  you  would  never  steal,"  she  pro 
tested. 


H2  MY   FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"I'm  not  so  sure — for  one  I  loved,"  said  he. 
"What  would  you  have  liked  me  to  bring  you?" 

Annunziata  thought.  "I  liked  those  chocolate 
cigars,"  she  said,  her  face  soft  with  reminiscence  of 
delight. 

"Ah,  but  we  mustn't  have  it  ton  jours  perdrix," 
said  John.  "Do  you,  by  any  chance,  like  march 
pane  ?" 

"Marchpane? — I  adore  it,"  she  answered,  in  an 
outburst  of  emotion. 

"You  have  your  human  weaknesses,  after  all," 
John  laughed.  "Well,  I  stole  a  pocketful  of  march 
pane." 

Annunziata  drew  away  again,  her  little  white 
forehead  furrowed.  "Stole?"  she  repeated,  reluc 
tant  to  believe. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  brazenly,  nodding  his  head. 

"Oh,  that  was  very  wrong,"  said  Annunziata, 
sadly  shaking  hers. 

"No,"  said  he.  "Because,  in  the  first  place,  it's  a 
matter  of  proverbial  wisdom  that  stolen  marchpane's 
sweetest.  And,  in  the  next  place,  I  stole  it  quite 


PART  THIRD  113 

openly,  under  the  eye  of  the  person  it  belonged  to, 
and  she  made  no  effort  to  defend  her  property.  See 
ing  which,  I  even  went  so  far  as  to  explain  to  her 
wliy  I  was  stealing  it.  'There's  a  young  limb  o'  mis 
chief  with  a  sweet  tooth  at  Sant'  Alessina,'  I  ex 
plained,  'who  regularly  levies  blackmail  upon  me. 
I'm  stealing  this  for  her.'  And  then  the  lady  I  was 
stealing  from  told  me  I  might  steal  as  much  as  ever 
I  thought  good." 

"Oh-h-h,"  said  Annunziata,  a  long-drawn  Oh  of 
relief.  "Then  you  didn't  steal  it — she  gave  it  to 
you." 

"Well,"  said  John,  "if  casuistry  like  that  can 
ease  your  conscience — if  you  feel  that  you  can  con 
scientiously  receive  it —  And  he  allowed  his  inflec 
tion  to  complete  the  sentence. 

"Give  it  to  me,"  said  Annunziata,  holding  out  her 
hands,  and  dancing  up  and  down  in  glee  and  in  im 
patience. 

"Nenni-da,"  said  John.  "Not  till  after  dinner. 
I'm  not  going  to  be  a  party  to  the  spoiling  of  a  fair, 
young,  healthy  appetite." 


MY   FRIEND    PROSPERO 

Pain  wrote  itself  upon  Annunziata's  brow.  "Oh," 
she  grieved,  "must  I  wait  till  after  dinner?" 

"Yes,"  said  John. 

For  a  breathing-space  she  struggled.  "Would  it 
be  bad  of  me,"  she  asked,  "if  I  begged  for  just  a 
little  now?" 

"Yes,"  said  John,  "bad  and  bootless.  You'd  find 
me  as  unyielding  as  adamant." 

"Ah,  well,"  sighed  Annunziata,  a  deep  and  tremu 
lous  sigh.  "Then  I  will  wait." 

And,  like  a  true  philosopher,  she  proceeded  to  oc 
cupy  her  mind  with  a  fresh  interest.  She  looked 
round  the  room,  she  looked  out  of  the  window. 
"Why  do  you  stay  here?  It  is  much  pleasanter  in 
the  garden,"  she  remarked. 

"I  came  here  to  seek  for  consolation.  To-day  be 
gan  for  me  with  a  tragic  misadventure,"  John  re 
plied. 

Annunziata's  eyes  grew  big,  compassionating 
him,  and,  at  the  same  time,  bespeaking  a  lively  curi 
osity. 

"Poor  Prospero,"  she  gently  murmured.  "What 
was  it?"  on  tip-toe  she  demanded. 


PART    THIRD  115 

"Well,"  he  said,  "when  I  rose,  to  go  for  mj 
morning  swim,  I  made  an  elaborate  toilet,  because 
I  hoped  to  meet  a  certain  person  whom,  for  rea 
sons  connected  with  my  dignity,  I  wished  to  im 
press.  But  it  was  love's  labour  lost.  The  certain 
person  is  an  ornament  of  the  uncertain  sex,  and 
didn't  turn  up.  So,  to  console  myself,  I  came 
here." 

Annunziata  looked  round  the  room  again. 
"What  is  there  here  that  can  console  you?" 

"These,"  said  John.  His  hand  swept  the  pic 
tured  walls. 

"The  paintings?"  said  she,  following  his 
gesture.  "How  can  they  console  you?" 

"They're  so  well  painted,"  said  he,  fondly 
studying  the  soft-coloured  canvases.  "Besides, 
these  ladies  are  dead.  I  like  dead  ladies." 

Annunziata  looked  critically  at  the  pictures,  and 
then  at  him  with  solemn  meaning.  "They  are  very 
pretty — but  they  are  not  dead,"  she  pronounced 
in  her  deepest  voice. 

"Not  dead?"  echoed  John,  astonished.  "Aren't 
they?" 


116  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"No,"  said  she,  with  a  slow  shake  of  the  head 

"Dear  me,"  said  he.     "And,  when  they're  alone 

here   and   no   one's   looking,    do    you   think   they 

come    down    from   their    frames    and    dance?      It 

must  be  a  sight  worth  seeing." 

"No,"  said  Annunziata.  "These  are  only  their 
pictures.  They  cannot  come  down  from  their 
frames.  But  the  ladies  themselves  are  not  dead. 
Some  of  them  are  still  in  Purgatory,  perhaps.  We 
should  pray  for  them."  She  made,  in  parenthesis 
as  it  were,  a  pious  sign  of  the  cross.  "Some  are 
perhaps  already  in  Heaven.  We  should  ask  their 
prayers.  And  others  are  perhaps  in  Hell,"  she 
pursued,  inexorable  theologian  that  she  was. 
"But  none  of  them  is  dead.  No  one  is  dead. 
There's  no  such  thing  as  being  dead." 

"But  then,"  puzzled  John,  "what  is  it  that  peo 
ple  mean  when  they  talk  of  Death?" 

"I  will  tell  you,"  said  Annunziata,  her  eyes 
heavy  with  thought.  "Listen,  and  I  will  tell  you." 
She  seated  herself  on  the  big  round  ottoman,  and 
raised  her  face  to  his.  "Have  you  ever  been  at  a 
pantomime?"  she  asked. 


PART    THIRD  117 

"Yes,"  said  John,  wondering  what  could  pos 
sibly  be  coming. 

"Have  you  been  at  the  pantomime,"  she  con 
tinued  earnestly,  "when  there  was  what  they  call 
a  transformation-scene?" 

"Yes,"   said  John. 

"Well,"  said  she,  "last  winter  I  was  taken  to  the 
pantomime  at  Bergamo,  and  I  saw  a  transforma 
tion-scene.  You  ask  me,  what  is  Death?  It  is 
exactly  like  a  transformation-scene.  At  the  panto 
mime  the  scene  was  just  like  the  world.  There 
were  trees,  and  houses,  and  people,  common  people, 
like  anyone.  Then  suddenly  click!  Oh,  it  was 
wonderful.  Everything  was  changed.  The  trees 
had  leaves  of  gold  and  silver,  and  the  houses  were 
like  fairy  palaces,  and  there  were  strange  lights, 
red  and  blue,  and  there  were  great  garlands  of  the 
most  beautiful  flowers,  and  the  people  were  like 
angels,  with  gems  and  shining  clothes.  Well, 
you  understand,  at  first  we  had  only  seen  one  side 
of  the  scene; — then  click!  everything  was  turned 
round,  and  we  saw  the  other  side.  That  is  like 


118  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

life  and  death.  Always,  while  we  are  alive,  we 
can  see  only  one  side  of  things.  But  there 
is  the  other  side,  the  under  side.  Never,  so 
long  as  we  are  alive,  we  can  never,  never  see 
it.  But  when  we  die, — click!  It  is  a  trans 
formation-scene.  Everything  is  turned  round,  and 
we  see  the  other  side.  Oh,  it  will  be  very  different,  it 
will  be  wonderful.  That  is  what  they  call  Death." 

It  was  John's  turn  to  be  grave.  It  was  some  time 
before  he  spoke.  He  looked  down  at  her,  with  a 
kind  of  grave  laughter  in  his  eyes,  admiring,  consid 
ering.  What  could  he  say?  .  .  .  What  he  did 
say,  at  last,  was  simply,  "Thank  you,  my  dear." 

Annunziata  jumped  up. 

"Oh,  come,"  she  urged.  "Let's  go  into  the  gar 
den.  It  is  so  much  nicer  there  than  here.  There  are 
lots  of  cockchafers.  Besides" — she  held  out  as  an 
additional  inducement — "we  might  meet  Maria  Do 
lores." 

"No,"  said  John.  "Though  the  cockchafers  are  a 
temptation,  I  will  stop  here.  But  go  you  to  the  gar 
den,  by  all  means.  And  if  you  do  meet  Maria  Do- 


PART    THIRD  119 

lores,  tell  her  what  you  have  just  told  me.    I  think 
she  would  like  to  hear  it." 

"All  right,"  consented  Annunziata,  moving 
toward  the  door.  "I'll  see  you  at  dinner.  You 
won't  forget  the  marchpane  ?" 


II 


John  was  in  a  state  of  mind  that  perplexed  and 
rather  annoyed  him.  Until  the  day  before  yester 
day,  his  detachment  here  at  Sant'  Alessina  from 
ordinary  human  society,  the  absence  of  people  more 
or  less  of  his  own  sort,  had  been  one  of  the  elements 
of  his  situation  which  he  had  positively,  consciously, 
rejoiced  in, — had  been  an  appreciable  part  of  what 
he  had  summarised  to  Lady  Blanchemain  as  "the 
whole  blessed  thing."  He  had  his  castle,  his  pict 
ures,  his  garden,  he  had  the  hills  and  valley,  the 
birds,  the  flowers,  the  clouds,  the  sun,  he  had  the 
Rampio,  he  had  Annunziata,  he  even  had  Annun- 
ziata's  uncle ;  and  with  all  this  he  had  a  sense  of  hav- 


120  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

ing  stepped  out  of  a  world  that  he  knew  by  heart, 
that  he  knew  to  satiety,  a  world  that  was  stale  and 
stuffy  and  thread-bare,  with  its  gilt  rubbed  off  and 
its  colours  tarnished,  into  a  world  where  everything 
was  fresh  and  undiscovered  and  full  of  savour,  a 
great  cool  blue  and  green  world  that  from  minute 
to  minute  opened  up  new  perspectives,  made  new 
promises,  brought  to  pass  new  surprises.  And  this 
sense,  in  some  strange  way,  included  Time  as  well  as 
space.  It  was  as  if  he  had  entered  a  new  region  of 
Time,  as  if  he  had  escaped  from  the  moving  current 
of  Time  into  a  stationary  moment.  Alone  here, 
where  modern  things  or  thoughts  had  never  pene 
trated,  alone  with  the  earth  and  the  sky,  the  medi 
aeval  castle,  the  dead  ladies,  with  Annunziata,  and 
the  parroco,  and  the  parroco's  Masses  and  Benedic 
tions — to-day,  he  would  please  himself  by  fancying, 
might  be  a  yesterday  of  long  ago  that  had  somehow 
dropped  out  of  the  calendar  and  remained,  a  frag 
ment  of  the  Past  that  had  been  forgotten  and  left 
over.  The  presence  of  a  person  of  his  own  sort,  a 
fellow-citizen  of  his  own  period,  wearing  its  clothes, 


PART    THIRD  121 

speaking  its  speech,  would  have  broken  the  charm, 
would  have  seemed  as  undesirable  and  as  inappro 
priate  as  the  introduction  of  an  English  meadow 
into  the  Italian  landscape. 

Yet  now  such  a  person  had  come,  and  behold,  her 
presence,  so  far  from  breaking  the  charm,  merged 
with  and  intensified  it, — supplied  indeed  the  one 
feature  needed  to  perfect  it.  A  person  of  his  own 
sort?  The  expression  is  convenient.  A  fellow-citi 
zen,  certainly,  of  his  period,  wearing  its  clothes, 
speaking  its  speech.  But  a  person,  happily,  not 
of  his  own  sex,  a  woman,  a  beautiful  woman;  and 
what  her  presence  supplied  to  the  poetry  of  Sant' 
Alessina,  making  it  complete,  was,  if  you  like,  the 
Eternal  Feminine.  As  supplied  already  by  the 
painted  women  on  the  walls  about  him,  this  force 
had  been  static ;  as  supplied  by  a  woman  who  lived 
and  breathed,  it  became  dynamic.  That  was  all 
very  well;  if  he  could  have  let  it  rest  at  that,  if 
he  could  have  confined  his  interest  in  her,  his  feel 
ing  about  her,  to  the  plane  of  pure  aesthetics,  he 
would  have  had  nothing  to  complain  of.  But  the 


122  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

mischief  was  that  he  couldn't.  The  thing  that 
perplexed  and  annoyed  him, — and  humiliated  him 
too,  in  some  measure, — was  a  craving  that  had 
sprung  up  over-night,  and  was  now  strong  and 
constant,  to  get  into  personal  touch  with  her,  to 
make  her  acquaintance,  to  talk  with  her;  to  find 
out  a  little  what  manner  of  soul  she  had,  to  estab 
lish  some  sort  of  human  relation  with  her.  It 
wasn't  in  the  least  as  yet  a  sentimental  craving; 
or,  if  it  was,  John  at  any  rate  didn't  know  it.  In 
its  essence,  perhaps,  it  was  little  more  than  curi 
osity.  But  it  was  disturbing,  upsetting,  it 
destroyed  the  peace  and  the  harmonious  leisure  of 
his  day.  It  perplexed  him,  it  was  outside  his 
habits,  it  was  unreasonable.  "Not  unreasonable  to 
think  it  might  be  fun  to  talk  to  a  pretty  woman," 
he  discriminated,  "but  unreasonable  to  yearn  to 
talk  to  her  as  if  your  life  hung  in  the  balance." 
And  in  some  measure,  too,  it  humiliated  him:  it 
was  a  confession  of  weakness,  of  insufficiency  to 
himself,  of  dependence  for  his  contentment  upon 
another.  He  tried  to  stifle  it;  he  tried  to  fix  his 


PART    THIRD  123 

mind  on  subjects  that  would  lead  far  from  it. 
Every  subject,  all  subjects,  subjects  the  most  dis 
crepant,  seemed  to  possess  one  common  property, 
that  of  leading  straight  back  to  it.  Then  he  said, 
"Well,  if  you  can't  stifle  it,  yield  to  it.  Go  down 
into  the  garden — hunt  her  up — boldly  engage  her 
in  conversation."  Assurance  was  the  note  of  the 
man;  but  when  he  pictured  himself  in  the  act  of 
"boldly  engaging  her  in  conversation,"  his  assur 
ance  oozed  away,  and  he  was  conscious  of  a  thrice- 
humiliating  shyness.  Why?  What  was  there  in 
the  woman  that  should  turn  a  brave  man  shy  ? 

However,  the  stars  were  working  for  him.  That 
afternoon,  coming  home  from  a  stroll  among  the 
olives,  he  met  her  face  to  face  at  the  gate  of  the 
garden,  whither  she  had  arrived  from  the  direction 
of  the  village.  Having  made  his  bow,  which 
she  accepted  with  a  smile,  he  could  do  no  less  than 
open  the  gate  for  her;  and  as  their  ways  must 
thence  lie  together,  up  the  long  ilex-shaded  avenue 
to  the  castle,  it  would  be  an  awkward  affectation 
not  to  speak.  And  yet  (he  ground  his  teeth  at 


124  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

having  to  admit  it)  his  heart  had  begun  to  pound 
so  violently  (not  from  emotion,  he  told  himself, — 
from  a  mere  ridiculous  sort  of  nervous  excitement: 
what  was  there  in  the  woman  that  should  excite 
a  sane  man  like  that?)  he  was  afraid  to  trust  his 
voice,  lest  it  should  quaver  and  betray  him.  But 
fortunately  this  pounding  of  the  heart  lasted  only 
a  few  seconds.  The  short  business  of  getting  the 
gate  open,  and  of  closing  it  afterward,  gave  it  time 
to  pass.  So  that  now,  as  they  set  forward  toward 
the  house,  he  was  able  to  look  her  in  the  eye,  and 
to  observe,  with  impressiveness,  that  it  was  a  fine 
day. 

She  had  accepted  his  bow  with  a  smile,  amiable 
and  unembarrassed;  and  at  this,  in  quite  the  most 
unembarrassed  manner,  smiling  again, — perhaps 
with  just  the  faintest,  just  the  gentlest  shade  of 
irony,  and  with  just  the  slightest  quizzical  upward 
tremor  of  the  eyebrows, — "Isn't  it  a  day  rather 
typical  of  the  land  and  season?"  she  inquired. 

It  was  the  first  step  that  had  cost.  John's  assur 
ance  was  coming  swiftly  back.  Her  own  air  of  per- 


PART  THIRD  125 

feet  ease  in  the  circumstances  very  likely  accelerated 
it.  "Yes,"  he  answered  her.  "But  surely  that  isn't 
a  reason  for  begrudging  it  a  word  of  praise?" 

By  this  he  was  lucky  enough  to  provoke  a  laugh, 
a  little  light  gay  trill,  sudden  and  brief,  like  three 
notes  on  a  flute. 

"No,"  she  admitted.  "You  are  right.  The  day 
deserves  the  best  we  can  say  of  it." 

"Her  voice,"  thought  John,  availing  himself  of  a 
phrase  that  had  struck  him  in  a  book  he  had  lately 
read,  "her  voice  is  like  ivory  and  white  velvet." 
And  the  touch,  never  so  light,  of  a  foreign  accent 
with  which  she  spoke,  rendered  her  English  piquant 
and  pretty, — gave  to  each  syllable  a  crisp  little 
clean-cut  outline.  They  sauntered  on  for  a  minute 
or  two  in  silence,  with  half  the  width  of  the  road-way 
between  them,  the  shaded  road-way,  where  the  earth 
showed  purple  through  a  thin  green  veil  of  mosses, 
and  where  irregular  shafts  of  sunlight,  here  and 
there,  turned  purple  and  green  to  red  and  gold. 
The  warm  air,  woven  of  garden-fragrances,  hung 
round  them  palpable,  like  some  infinitely  subtile 


126  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

fabric.  And  of  course  blackbirds  were  calling, 
blackcaps  and  thrushes  singing,  in  all  the  leafy  gal 
leries  overhead.  A  fine  day  indeed,  mused  John, 
and  indeed  worthy  of  the  best  that  they  could  say. 
His  nervousness,  his  excitement,  had  entirely  left 
him,  his  assurance  had  come  completely  back ;  and 
with  it  had  come  a  curious  deep  satisfaction,  a  feeling 
that  for  the  moment  at  any  rate  the  world  left  noth 
ing  to  be  wished  for,  that  the  cup  of  his  desire  was 
full.  He  didn't  even,  now  that  he  might  do  so,  wish 
to  talk  to  her.  To  walk  with  her  was  enough, — to 
enjoy  her  companionship  in  silence.  Yes,  that 
was  it — companionship.  He  caught  at  the  word. 
"That  is  what  I  have  been  unconsciously  needing  all 
along.  I  flattered  myself  that  I  was  luxuriating  in 
the  very  absence  of  it.  But  man  is  a  gregarious  ani 
mal,  and  I  was  deceived."  So  he  could  refer  the 
effect  of  her  propinquity  to  the  mere  gregarious  in 
stinct,  not  suspecting  that  a  more  powerful  instinct 
was  already  awake.  Anyhow,  his  sense  of  that  pro 
pinquity, — his  consciousness  of  her,  gracefully  mov- 
.  ing  beside  him  in  the  sweet  weather,  while  her  sum- 


PART  THIRD  127 

mery  garments  fluttered,  and  some  strange,  faint, 
elusive  perfume  was  shaken  from  them, — filled  him 
with  a  satisfaction  that  for  the  moment  seemed 
ultimate.  He  had  no  wish  to  talk.  Their  progress 
side  by  side  was  a  conversation  without  words. 
They  were  getting  to  know  each  other,  they  were 
breaking  the  ice.  Each  step  they  took  was  as  good 
as  a  spoken  sentence,  was  a  mutual  experience,  draw 
ing  them  closer,  helping  to  an  understanding.  They 
walked  slowly,  as  by  a  tacit  agreement. 

Silence,  however,  couldn't  in  the  nature  of  things 
last  for  ever.  It  was  she  who  presently  broke  it. 

"I  owe  you,"  she  said,  in  her  ivory  voice,  with  her 
clean-cut  enunciation,  "a  debt  of  thanks."  And 
still  again  she  smiled,  as  she  looked  over  toward 
him,  her  dark  eyes  glowing,  her  dark  hair  richly 
drooping,  in  the  shadow  of  a  big  hat  of  wine-col 
oured  straw. 

John's  eyes  were  at  a  loss.    "Oh — ?"  he  wondered. 

"For  a  pleasure  given  me  by  our  friend  Annun- 
ziata,"  she  explained.  "This  morning  she  told  me 
a  most  interesting  parable  about  Death.  And  she 


128  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

mentioned  that  it  was  you  who  had  suggested  to  her 
to  tell  it  me." 

"Oh,"  said  John,  laughing,  while  the  pink  of  his 
skin  deepened  a  shade.  "She  mentioned  that,  did 
she  ?  I'm  glad  if  you  don't  feel  that  I  took  a  good 
deal  upon  myself.  But  she  had  just  told  the  same 
parable  to  me,  and  it  seemed  a  pity  it  shouldn't  have 
a  larger  audience." 

Then,  after  a  few  more  paces  taken  again  in 
silence,  "What  a  marvellous  little  person  she  is,  An- 
nunziata,"  said  Maria  Dolores. 

"She's  to  a  marvellous  degree  the  right  product 
of  her  milieu,"  said  John. 

Maria  Dolores  did  not  speak,  but  her  eyes  ques 
tioned,  "Yes?  How  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  she's  a  true  child  of  the  presbytery," 
he  replied,  "and  at  the  same  time  a  true  child  of  this 
Italy,  where  Paganism  has  never  perfectly  died. 
She  has  been  carefully  instructed  in  her  catechism, 
and  she  has  fed  upon  pious  legends,  she  has  breathed 
an  ecclesiastical  atmosphere,  until  the  things  of  the 
Church  have  become  a  part  of  her  very  bone.  She 


PART  THIRD  129 

sees  everything  in  relation  to  them,  translates  every 
thing  in  terms  of  them.  But  at  the  same  time  odd 
streaks  of  Paganism  survive  in  her.  They  survive 
a  little — don't  they  ? — in  all  Italians.  Wherever  she 
goes  her  eye  reads  omens.  She  will  cast  your  fortune 
for  you  with  olive-stones.  The  woods  are  peopled 
for  her  by  fauns  and  dryads.  When  she  takes  her 
walks  abroad,  I've  no  doubt,  she  catches  glimpses  of 
Proteus  rising  from  the  lake,  and  hears  old  Triton 
blow  his  wreathed  horn." 

Maria  Dolores  looked  interested. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  slowly,  thoughtfully,  and  medi 
tated  for  an  interval.  By-and-by,  "You  know," 
she  recommenced,  "she's  a  sort  of  little  person  about 
whom  one  can't  help  feeling  rather  frightened." 
And  her  eyes  looked  to  his  for  sympathetic  under 
standing. 

But  his  were  interrogative.  "No?  Why  should 
one  feel  frightened  about  her?" 

"Oh,"  said  Maria  Dolores,  with  a  movement,  "it 
isn't  exactly  easy  to  tell  why.  One's  fears  are  vague. 
But — well,  for  one  thing,  she  thinks  so  much  about 


130  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

Death.  Death  and  what  comes  after, — they  interest 
her  so  much.  It  doesn't  seem  natural,  it  makes  one 
uneasy.  And  then  she's  so  delicate-looking.  Some 
times  she's  almost  transparent.  In  every  way  she  is 
too  serious.  She  uses  her  mind  too  much,  and  her 
body  too  little.  She  ought  to  have  more  of  the 
gaiety  of  childhood,  she  ought  to  have  other  children 
to  romp  with.  She's  too  much  like  a  disembodied 
spirit.  It  all  Alarms  one." 

John,  as  she  spoke,  frowned,  pondering.  When 
she  had  done,  his  frown  cleared,  he  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  think  it  need,"  he  said.  "Her  delicacy, 
her  frailness,  have  never  struck  me  as  indicating 
weakness, — they  seem  simply  the  proper  physical 
accompaniments  of  her  crystalline  little  soul, — she's 
made  of  a  fine  and  delicate  clay.  She  thinks  about 
Death,  it  is  true,  but  not  in  a  morbid  way, — and 
that's  a  part  of  her  ecclesiastical  tradition ;  and  she 
thinks  quite  as  much  about  life, — she  thinks  about 
everything.  I  agree  with  you,  it's  a  pity  she  has  no 
other  children.  But  she  isn't  by  any  means  deficient 
in  the  instincts  of  childhood.  She  can  enjoy  a 


PART  THIRD  131 

chocolate  cigar,  for  instance,  as  well  as  another ;  and 
as  for  marchpane,  I  have  her  own  word  that  she 
adores  it." 

Maria  Dolores  gave  another  light  trill  of  laugh 
ter. 

"Yes,  I'm  aware  of  her  passion  for  marchpane. 
She  confided  it  to  me  this  morning.  And  as,  in  reply 
to  her  questions,  I  admitted  that  I  rather  liked  it 
myself,  she  very  generously  offered  to  bring  me  some 
this  afternoon, — which,  to  be  sure,  an  hour  ago,  she 
did." 

She  laughed  again,  and  John  laughed  too. 

"All  the  same,"  she  insisted,  "I  can't  help  that 
feeling  of  uneasiness  about  her.  Sometimes,  when  I 
look  at  her,  I  can  almost  see  her  wings.  What  will 
be  her  future,  if  she  grows  up?  One  would  rather 
not  think  of  her  as  married  to  some  poor  Italian,  and 
having  to  give  herself  to  the  prosaic  sort  of  existence 
that  would  mean." 

"The  sordid  sort  of  existence,"  augmented  John. 
"No,  one  would  decidedly  rather  not.  But  she  will 
never  marry.  She  will  enter  religion.  Her  uncle 


132  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

has  it  all  planned  out.    He  destines  her  for  the 

Servites." 

"Oh?  The  Servites— the  Mantellate?  I  am  glad 
of  that,"  exclaimed  Maria  Dolores.  "It  is  a  most 
beautiful  order.  They  have  an  especial  devotion  to 
Our  Lady  of  Sorrows." 

"Yes,"  said  John,  and  remembered  it  was  for 
Our  Lady  of  Sorrows  that  she  who  spoke  was 
named. 

Slow  though  their  march  had  been,  by  this  time 
they  had  come  to  the  end  of  the  avenue,  and  were  in 
the  wide  circular  sweep  before  the  castle.  They 
stopped  here,  and  stood  looking  off,  over  the  garden, 
with  its  sombre  cypresses  and  bright  beds  of  gera 
nium,  down  upon  the  valley,  dim  and  luminous  in  a 
mist  of  gold.  Great,  heavy,  fantastic-shaped 
clouds,  pearl-white  with  pearl-grey  shadows,  piled 
themselves  up  against  the  scintillant  dark  blue  of  the 
sky.  In  and  out  among  the  rose-trees  near  at  hand, 
where  the  sun  was  hottest,  heavily  flew,  with  a  loud 
bourdonnement,  the  cockchafers  promised  by  An- 
nunziata, — big,  blundering,  clumsy,  the  scorn  of 


PART  THIRD  133 

their  light- winged  and  business-like  competitors, 
the  bees.  Lizards  lay  immobile  as  lizards  cast 
in  bronze,  only  their  little  glittering,  watchful 
pin-heads  of  eyes  giving  sign  of  life.  And  of 
course  the  blackcaps  never  for  a  moment  left  off 
singing. 

They  stood  side  by  side,  within  a  yard  of  each 
other,  in  silent  contemplation  of  these  things,  during 
I  don't  know  how  many  long  and,  for  John,  deli 
cious  seconds.  Yes,  he  owned  it  to  himself,  it  was 
delicious  to  feel  her  standing  there  beside  him,  in 
silent  communion  with  him,  contemplating  the  same 
things,  enjoying  the  same  pleasantnesses.  Compan 
ionship — companionship :  it  was  what  he  had  been 
unconsciously  needing  all  along!  ...  At  last 
she  turned,  and,  withdrawing  her  eyes  lingeringly 
from  the  landscape,  looked  into  his,  with  a  smile. 
She  did  not  speak,  but  her  smile  said,  just  as  ex 
plicitly  as  her  lips  could  have  done,  "What  a  scene 
of  beauty !" 

And  John  responded  aloud,  with  fervour,  "In 
deed,  indeed  it  is." 


134  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"And  so  romantic,"  she  added.  "It  is  like  a  scene 
out  of  some  old  high  musical  romance." 

"The  most  romantic  scene  I  know,"  said  he.  "All 
my  life  I  have  thought  so." 

"Oh?"  said  she,  looking  surprise.  "Have  you 
known  it  all  your  life  ?" 

"Well, — very  nearly,"  said  he,  with  half  a  laugh. 
"I  saw  it  first  when  I  was  ten.  Then  for  long  years 
I  lost  it, — and  only  recovered  it,  by  accident,  a 
month  ago." 

Her  face  showed  her  interest.  "Oh?  How  was 
that?  How  did  it  happen?" 

"When  I  was  ten,"  John  recounted,  half  laugh 
ing  again,  "I  was  travelling  with  my  father,  and, 
among  the  many  places  we  visited,  one  seemed  to  me 
a  very  vision  of  romance  made  real.  A  vast  and 
stately  castle,  in  a  garden,  in  a  valley,  with  splendid 
halls  and  chambers,  and  countless  beautiful  pictures 
of  women.  All  my  life  I  remembered  it,  dreamed 
of  it,  longed  to  see  it  again.  But  I  hadn't  a  notion 
where  it  was,  save  vaguely  that  it  was  somewhere  in 
Italy;  and,  my  poor  father  being  dead,  there  was 


PART  THIRD  135 

no  one  I  could  ask.  Then,  wandering  in  these  parts 
a  month  ago,  I  stumbled  upon  it,  and  recognised 
it.  Though  shrunken  a  good  deal  in  size,  to  be 
sure,  it  was  still  recognisable,  and  as  romantic  as 
ever." 

Maria  Dolores  listened  pensively.  When  he  had 
reached  his  period,  her  eyes  lighted  up.  "What  a 
charming  adventure,"  she  said.  "And  so,  for  you, 
besides  its  general  romance,  the  place  has  a  personal 
one,  all  your  own.  I,  too,  have  known  it  for  long 
years,  but  only  from  photographs.  I  suppose  I 
should  never  have  seen  the  real  thing,  except  for  a 
friend  of  mine  coming  to  live  here." 

"I  wonder,"  said  John,  "that  the  people  who  own 
it  never  live  here." 

"The  Prince  of  Zelt-Neuminster?"  said  she. 
"No, — he  doesn't  like  the  Italian  government. 
Since  Lombardy  passed  from  Austria  to  Italy,  the 
family  have  entirely  given  up  staying  at  Sant'  Ales- 
sina." 

"In  those  circumstances,"  said  John,  "practical- 
minded  people,  I  should  think,  would  get  rid  of  the 
place." 


136  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"Oh,"  said  she,  laughing,  "the  Prince,  in  some 
ways,  is  practical-minded  enough.  He  has  this 
great  collection  of  Italian  paintings,  which,  by  Ital 
ian  law,  he  mayn't  remove  from  Italian  soil ;  and  if 
he  were  to  get  rid  of  Sant'  Alessina,  where  could  he 
house  them?  In  other  ways,  though,  he  is  perhaps 
not  so  practical.  He  is  one  of  those  Utopians  who 
believe  that  the  present  Kingdom  of  Italy  must  per 
force  before  long  make  shipwreck;  and  I  think  he 
holds  on  to  Sant'  Alessina  in  the  dream  of  coming 
here  in  triumph,  and  grandly  celebrating  that 
event." 

"I  see,"  said  John,  nodding.  "That  is  a  beauti 
ful  ideal." 

"Good-bye,"  said  she,  flashing  a  last  quick  smile 
into  his  eyes ;  and  she  moved  away,  down  a  garden 
path,  toward  the  pavilion  beyond  the  clock. 


PART    THIRD  137 


III 


And  now,  I  should  have  imagined,  for  a  single  ses 
sion  (and  that  an  initial  one),  he  had  had  enough. 
I  should  have  expected  him  to  spend  the  remainder 
of  his  day,  a  full  man,  in  thankful  tranquillity,  in 
agreeable  retrospective  rumination.  But  no.  In 
dulgence,  it  soon  appeared,  had  but  whetted  his 
appetite.  After  a  quarter-hour  of  walking  about 
the  garden,  during  which  his  jumble  of  sensations 
and  impressions, — her  soft-glowing  eyes,  her  soft- 
drooping  hair,  under  her  wine-red  hat;  her  slender 
figure,  in  its  fluttering  summery  muslin,  and  the 
faint,  faint  perfume  (like  a  faraway  memory  of 
rose-leaves)  that  hovered  near  her;  her  smile,  and 
the  curves,  when  she  smiled,  of  her  rose-red  lips, 
and  the  gleam  of  her  snow-white  teeth ;  her  laugh, 
her  voice,  her  ivory  voice ;  her  pretty  crisp-cut  Eng 
lish  ;  her  appreciation  of  Annunziata,  her  disquiet 
ing  presentiments  concerning  her ;  and  his  deep  sat- 


138  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

isfaction  in  her  propinquity,  her  "companionship" ; 
and  the  long  shaded  fragrant  avenue,  and  the  bird- 
songs,  and  the  gentle  weather, — after  a  quarter- 
hour  of  anything  but  thankful  tranquillity,  a 
quarter-hour  of  unaccountable  excitement  and  exal 
tation,  during  which  his  jumble  of  impressions  and 
sensations  settled  themselves,  from  ebullition,  into 
some  sort  of  quiescence,  he  began  to  grow  restlessly 
aware  that,  so  far  from  having  had  enough,  he  had 
had  just  a  sufficient  taste  to  make  him  hunger  keenly 
for  more  and  more.  It  was  ridiculous,  but  he 
couldn't  help  it.  And  as  there  seemed  no  manner  of 
likelihood  that  his  hunger  would  soon  be  fed,  it  was 
trying.  At  the  best,  he  could  not  reasonably  hope 
to  see  her  again  before  to-morrow  ;  and  even  then — ? 
What  ghost  of  a  reason  had  he  to  hope  that  even 
then  he  could  renew  their  conversation?  He  had 
owed  that  to-day  to  the  bare  hazard  of  their  ways 
lying  together.  To-morrow,  very  likely,  at  the  best, 
he  might  get  a  bow  and  a  smile.  Very  likely  it 
might  be  days  before  he  should  again  have  anything 
approaching  a  real  talk  with  her.  And  what — a 


PART     THIRD  139 

new  consideration,  that  struck  a  sudden  terror  to  his 
soul — what  if  her  visit  to  Frau  Brandt  was  to  be  a 
short  one?  What  if,  to-morrow  even,  she  were  to 
depart?  "Her  very  ease  in  talking  with  me,  a 
stranger,  may  quite  well  have  been  due  to  the  fact 
that  she  knew  she  would  never  see  me  again,"  he 
argued.  .  .  .  So  he  was  working  himself  into  a 
fine  state  of  despondency,  and  the  world  was  rapidly 
being  resolved  into  dust  and  ashes,  when  Heaven 
sent  him  a  diversion.  Nay,  indeed,  Heaven  sent  him 
two  diversions. 

IV 

There  was  a  sound  of  wheels  on  gravel,  of  horses' 
hoofs  on  stone,  and  Lady  Blanchemain's  great  high- 
swung  barouche,  rolling  superbly  forth  from  the 
avenue,  drew  up  before  the  castle,  Lady  Blanche- 
main  herself,  big  and  soft  and  sumptuous  in  silks 
and  laces,  under  a  much-befurbelowed,  much-be 
fringed,  lavender-hued  silk  sunshade,  occupying  the 
seat  of  honour.  John  hastened  across  the  garden, 
hat  in  hand,  to  welcome  her. 


140  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"Jump  in,"  she  commanded,  with  a  smile,  and  an 
imperious  sweep  of  the  arm.  "I  have  come  to  take 
you  for  a  drive." 

The  footman  (proud  man)  held  open  the  door, 
and  John  jumped  in.  But  just  as  the  footman 
(with  an  air)  had  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and 
before  the  coachman  had  touched  up  his  horses, 
there  came  a  rhythm  of  running  footsteps,  and  the 
voice  of  Annunziata  called,  insistently,  "Prospero! 
Prospero!"  Then,  all  out  of  breath,  her  pale 
cheeks  pink,  her  curls  in  disarray,  Annunziata  ar 
rived  beside  the  carriage,  and,  nowise  abashed  by 
that  magnificent  equipage,  nor  by  the  magnificent 
old  lady  throning  in  it  (nowise  abashed,  but,  from 
the  roundness  of  her  eyes,  a  good  deal  surprised  and 
vastly  curious),  she  explained,  gasping,  "A  tele 
gram,"  and  held  up  to  John  a  straw-coloured  en 
velope. 

"Thank  you,"  said  he,  taking  it,  and  waving  a 
friendly  hand.  "But  you  should  not  run  so  fast," 
he  admonished  her,  with  concern. 

Whereupon  the  carriage  drove  off,  Annunziata 


PART  THIRD  141 

standing  and  watching,  always  round-eyed,  till  it 
was  out  of  sight. 

"What  an  interesting-looking  child,"  said  Lady 
Blanchemain. 

"Yes,"  said  John.  "I  should  have  liked  to  intro 
duce  her  to  you." 

"Who  is  she?"  asked  the  lady. 

"She's  the  private  detective  I  told  you  of.  She's 
my  affinity.  She's  the  young  limb  o'  mischief  for 
whom  I  ravaged  your  stores  of  marchpane.  She's 
the  niece  of  the  parroco." 

"Hum,"  said  Lady  Blanchemain.  "Why  does 
she  call  you — what  was  it? — Prospero?" 

"She's  an  optimist.  She's  a  bird  of  good  omen," 
answered  John.  "She's  satisfied  herself,  by  consult 
ing  an  oracle,  that  Fortune  has  favours  up  her  sleeve 
for  me.  She  encouragingly  anticipates  them  by 
calling  me  Prospero  before  the  fact." 

Lady  Blanchemain  softly  laughed.  "That's  very 
nice  of  her,  and  very  wise.  Aren't  you  going  to  read 
your  telegram  ?" 

"I  didn't  know  whether  you'd  permit,"  said  John. 


142  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"Oh  pray,"  said  she,  with  a  gesture. 

The  carriage  by  this  time  had  left  the  garden, 
and  the  coachman  had  turned  his  horses'  heads 
northward,  away  from  the  lake,  toward  the  Alps, 
where  their  snowy  summits,  attenuated  by  the  sun 
and  the  distance  and  the  blue  air,  looked  like  vapours 
rising  into  the  sky. 

John  tore  open  his  envelope,  read,  frowned,  and 
uttered  a  half-stifled  ejaculation, — something  that 
sounded  rather  like  "I  say !"  and  vaguely  like  "By 
Jove !" 

"No  bad  news,  I  hope?"  inquired  the  lady,  sym 
pathetic,  and  trying  to  speak  as  if  she  didn't  know 
what  curiosity  meant. 

"Excellent  news,  on  the  contrary,"  said  John, 
"but  a  bolt  from  the  blue."  And  he  offered  her  the 
paper. 

"Am  on  my  way  to  Rome,"  she  read  aloud. 
"Could  I  come  to  you  for  a  day  ?  Winthorpe,  Hotel 
Cavour,  Milan." — "Winthorpe?"  She  pursed  her 
lips,  as  one  tasting  something.  "I  don't  know  the 
name.  Who  is  he?  What's  his  County?"  she  de- 


PART  THIRD  143 

manded, — she,  who  carried  the  County  Families  in 
her  head. 

John  chuckled.  "He  hasn't  got  a  County — he's 
only  an  American,"  he  said,  pronouncing  that  genial 
British  formula  with  intention. 

"Oh,"  sighed  Lady  Blanchemain,  her  expecta 
tions  dashed ;  and  drawing  in  her  skirts,  she  sank  a 
little  deeper  into  her  corner. 

"He  hasn't  got  a  County,"  repeated  John.  "But 
he's  far  and  away  the  greatest  swell  I  know." 

"A  swell?  An  American?"  Lady  Blanchemain 
pressed  down  her  lips,  and  gave  a  movement  to  her 
shoulders. 

"An.  aristocrat,  a  patrician,"  said  John. 

"Fudge,"  said  Lady  Blanchemain.  "Americans 
and  Australians — they're  anything  you  like,  but 
they're  never  that." 

John  laughed.  "I  adore,"  he  said,  "our  light 
and  airy  British  way  of  tarring  Americans  and  Aus 
tralians  with  the  same  brush, — the  descendants  of 
transported  convicts  and  the  descendants  of  the  Pil 
grim  Fathers !" 


144  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"Is  your  Winthorpe  man  a  descendant  of  the  Pil 
grim  Fathers?"  asked  Lady  Blanchemain,  drily. 

"Indeed  he  is,"  said  John.  "He's  descended  from 
ten  separate  individuals  who  made  the  first  voyage 
in  the  Mayflower.  And  he  holds,  by-the-bye,  intact, 
the  lands  that  were  ceded  to  his  family  by  the  In 
dians  the  year  after.  That  ought  to  recommend 
him  to  your  Ladyship, — an  unbroken  tenure  of 
nearly  three  hundred  years." 

"Old  acres,"  her  ladyship  admitted,  cautiously, 
"always  make  for  respectability." 

"Besides,"  John  carelessly  threw  out,  "he's  a 
baronet." 

Lady  Blanchemain  sat  up.  "A  baronet?"  she 
said.  "An  American?" 

"Alas,  yes,"  said  John,  "a  mere  American.  And 
one  of  the  earliest  creations, — by  James  the  First, 
no  less.  His  patent  dates  from  1612.  But  he 
doesn't  use  the  title.  He  regards  it,  he  pretends,  as 
merged  in  a  higher  dignity." 

"What  higher  dignity?"  asked  the  lady,  frown 
ing. 


PART    THIRD  145 

"That  of  an  American  citizen,  he  says,"  chuckled 
John. 

"Brrr,"  she  breathed,  impatient. 

"And  moreover,"  John  gaily  continued,  "besides 
being  descended  from  the  Pilgrim  Fathers,  he's  de 
scended  in  other  lines  from  half  the  peerage  of  Sev 
enteenth  Century  England.  And  to  top  up  with,  if 
you  please,  he's  descended  from  Alfred  the  Great. 
He's  only  an  American,  but  he  can  show  a  clear  de 
scent  bang  down  from  Alfred  the  Great !  I  think 
the  most  exquisite,  the  most  subtle  and  delicate  pleas 
ure  I  have  ever  experienced  has  been  to  see  English 
people,  people  of  yesterday,  cheerfully  patronising 
him." 

"You've  enlarged  my  sphere  of  knowledge,"  said 
Lady  Blanchemain,  grimly.  "I  had  never  known 
that  there  was  blood  in  America.  Does  this  prodig 
ious  personage  talk  through  his  nose?" 

"Worse  luck,  no,"  said  John.  "I  wish  he  did — a 
little — just  enough  to  smack  of  his  soil,  to  possess 
local  colour.  No,  he  talks  for  all  the  world  like  you 
or  me, — which  exposes  him  to  compliments  in  Eng- 


146  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

land.  'An  American?  Really?'  our  tactful  people 
cry,  when  he  avows  his  nationality.  'Upon  my 
word,  I  should  never  have  suspected  it.' ' 

"I  suppose,  with  all  the  rest,  he's  rich?"  asked 
Lady  Blanchemain. 

"Immensely,"  assented  John.  "Speaking  of 
Fortune  and  her  favours,  she's  withheld  none  from 
him." 

"Then  he's  good-looking,  too?" 

"He  looks  like  a  Man,"  said  John. 

"Hum,"  said  Lady  Blanchemain,  moving.  "If  I 
had  received  a  wire  from  a  creature  of  such  propor 
tions,  I've  a  feeling  I'd  answer  it." 

"I've  a  very  similar  feeling  myself,"  laughed 
John.  "When  we  turn  back,  if  you  think  your 
coachman  can  be  persuaded  to  stop  at  the  tele 
graph  office  in  the  village,  I'll  give  my  feeling 
effect." 

"I  think  we  might  turn  back  now,"  said  Lady 
Blanchemain.  "It's  getting  rather  gloomy  here." 
She  looked  round,  with  a  little  shudder,  and  then 
gave  the  necessary  order.  The  valley  had  narrowed 


PART    THIRD  147 

to  what  was  scarcely  more  than  a  defile  between  two 
dark  and  rugged  hillsides, — pine-covered  hillsides 
that  shut  out  the  sun,  smiting  the  air  with  chill  and 
shadow,  and  turning  the  Rampio,  whose  brawl 
seemed  somehow  to  increase  the  chill,  turning  the 
sparkling,  sportive  Rampio  to  the  colour  of  slate. 
"It  puts  one  in  mind  of  brigands,"  she  said,  with  an 
other  little  shudder.  But  though  the  air  was  chilly, 
it  was  wonderfully,  keenly  fragrant  with  the  incense 
of  the  pines. 

"Well,"  she  asked,  when  they  were  facing  home 
ward,  "and  your  woman?  What  of  her?" 

"Nothing,"  said  John.  "Or,  anyhow,  very  lit 
tle."  (It  would  be  extremely  pleasant,  he  felt 
suddenly,  to  talk  of  her;  but  at  the  same  time 
he  felt  an  extreme  reluctance  to  let  his  pleasure 
be  seen.) 

"But  your  private  detective  ?"  said  Lady  Blanche- 
main.  "Weren't  her  investigations  fruitful?" 

"Not  very,"  said  he.  "She  learnt  little  beyond 
her  name  and  age." 

"And  what  is 'her  name?"  asked  the  lady. 


148  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"Her  name  is  Maria  Dolores,"  answered  John 
( and  he  experienced  a  secret  j  oy ,  strange  to  him,  in 
pronouncing  it). 

"Maria  Dolores?"  said  Lady  Blanchemain  (and 
he  experienced  a  secret  joy  in  hearing  it).  "Maria 
Dolores — what  ?" 

"My  detective  didn't  discover  her  Pagan  name," 
said  John. 

"So  that  you  are  still  in  doubt  whether  she's  the 
daughter  of  a  miller?"  Lady  Blanchemain  raised 
her  eyebrows. 

"Oh,  no :  I  think  she's  a  miller's  daughter  safely 
enough,"  said  he.  "But  she's  an  elaborately  chis 
elled  and  highly  polished  one.  Her  voice  is  like 
ivory  and  white  velvet;  and  to  hear  her  speak 
English  is  a  revelation  of  the  hidden  beauties  of 
that  language." 

"Hum,"  said  Lady  Blanchemain,  eyeing  him. 
"So  you've  advanced  to  the  point  of  talking  with 
her?" 

"Well,"  answered  John,  weighing  his  words,  "I 
don't  know  whether  I  can  quite  say  that.  But  acci- 


PART  THIRD  149 

dent  threw  us  together  for  a  minute  or  two  this  af 
ternoon,  and  we  could  scarcely  do  less,  in  civility, 
than  exchange  the  time  of  day." 

"And  are  you  in  love  with  her?"  asked  Lady 
Blanchemain. 

"I  wonder,"  said  he.  "What  do  you  think?  Is 
it  possible  for  a  man  to  be  in  love  with  a  woman 
he's  seen  only  half  a  dozen  times  all  told,  and 
spoken  with  never  longer  than  a  minute  or  two 
at  a  stretch?" 

"Was  it  only  a  minute  or  two — really?"  asked 
Lady  Blanchemain,  wooing  his  confidence  with  a 
glance. 

"No,"  said  John.  "It  was  probably  ten  minutes, 
possibly  fifteen.  But  they  passed  so  quickly,  it's 
really  nearer  the  truth  to  describe  them  as  one  or 
two." 

Lady  Blanchemain  shifted  her  sunshade,  and 
screwed  herself  half  round,  so  as  to  face  him,  her 
soft  old  eyes  full  of  smiling  scrutiny  and  sus 
picion. 

"I  never  can  tell  whether  or  not  you're  serious," 


150  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

she  complained.  "If  you  are  serious, — well,  a 
quand  le  mariage?" 

"The  marriage?"  cried  John.  "How  could  I 
marry  her?  Such  a  thing's  out  of  all  question." 

"Why?"  asked  she. 

"A  miller's  daughter!"  said  John.  "Would  you 
have  me  marry  the  daughter  of  a  miller?" 

"You  said  yourself  yesterday—  '  the  lady  re 
minded  him. 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  he.    "But  night  brings  counsel." 

"If  she's  well-educated,"  said  Lady  Blanchemain, 
"if  she's  well-bred,  what  does  it  matter  about  her 
father?  Though  a  nobody  in  Austria,  where  noth 
ing  counts  but  quarterings,  he's  probably  what 
we'd  call  a  gentleman  in  England.  Suppose  he's 
a  barrister?  Or  the  editor  of  a  newspaper? 
Or " 

She  paused,  thoughtful-eyed,  to  think  of  re 
spectable  professions.  At  last  she  gave  up  the 
effort. 

"Well,  anything  decent,"  she  concluded,  "so  long 
as  he  had  plenty  of  money." 


PART    THIRD  151 

"Ah,"  said  John,  sadly,  and  with  perhaps  mock 
humility.  "If  he  had  plenty  of  money,  he'd  never 
consent  to  his  daughter  marrying  a  son  of  poverty 
like  me." 

"Pooh!  For  a  title?"  cried  Lady  Blanchemain. 
"Besides,  you  have  prospects.  Isn't  your  name 
Prospero  ?" 

"I  have  precious  little  faith  in  oracles,"  said 
John. 

"I  advise  you  to  have  more,"  said  Lady  Blanche- 
main,  with  a  smile  that  seemed  occult. 

And  now  her  carriage  entered  the  village,  and  she 
put  him  down  at  the  telegraph  office. 

"Don't  wait,"  said  John.  "The  walk  from  here 
to  the  castle  is  nothing,  and  it  would  take  you  out  of 
your  way." 

"Well,  good-bye,  then,"  said  she.  "And  culti 
vate  more  faith  in  oracles — when  they're  auspi 
cious." 

Alone,  she  drew  from  some  recondite  fold  of  her 
many  draperies  a  letter,  an  unsealed  letter,  which 
she  opened,  spread  out,  and  proceeded  to  read.  It 


152  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

was  a  long  letter  in  her  ladyship's  own  handsome, 
high-bred  old-fashioned  handwriting ;  and  it  was  ad 
dressed  to  Messrs.  Farrow,  Bernscot,  and  Tisdale, 
Solicitors,  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  London.  She  read 
it  twice  through,  and  at  last  (with  a  smile  that 
seemed  occult)  restored  it  to  its  envelope.  "Stop  at 
the  post-office,"  she  said  to  her  coachman,  as  they 
entered  Roccadoro ;  and  to  her  footman,  giving  him 
the  letter,  "Have  that  registered,  please." 

Annunziata  lay  in  wait  for  John  in  the  garden. 
She  ran  up,  and  seized  him  by  the  arm.  Then,  skip 
ping  beside  him,  as  he  walked  on,  "Who  was  she? 
Where  did  she  come  from?  Where  did  she  take 
you?  Whom  was  the  telegram  from?"  she  de 
manded  in  a  breath,  nestling  her  curls  against  his 
coat-sleeve. 

"Piano,  piano"  remonstrated  John.  "One  ques 
tion  at  a  time.  Now,  begin  again." 

"Whom  was  the  telegram  from?"  she  obeyed,  be 
ginning  at  the  end. 

"Ah,"  said  he,  "the  telegram  was  from  my  friend 


PART  THIRD  153 

Prospero.  He's  coming  here  to-morrow.  We  must 
ask  your  uncle  whether  he  can  give  him  a  bed." 

"And  the  old  lady?"  pursued  Annunziata. 
"Who  was  she?" 

"The  old  lady  was  my  fairy  godmother,"  said 
John,  building  better  than  he  knew. 


PART   FOURTH 


Pacing  together  backward  and  forward,  as  they 
talked,  John  and  his  friend  Winthorpe  presented  a 
striking  and  perhaps  interesting  contrast.  John 
was  tall,  but  Winthorpe  seemed  a  good  deal  taller — 
though  (trifles  in  these  matters  looming  so  large), 
had  actual  measurements  been  taken,  I  daresay  half 
an  inch  would  have  covered  the  difference.  John 
was  lean  and  sinewy,  but  "rounded  off"  at  the  joints, 
and  of  a  pliant  carriage,  so  that  it  never  occurred  to 
you  to  think  of  him  as  thin.  Winthorpe's  spare  fig 
ure,  spare  and  angular,  with  its  greater  height,  held 
unswervingly  to  the  plane  of  the  perpendicular,  ap 
peared  absolutely  to  be  constructed  of  nothing  but 
bone  and  tendon.  John's  head,  with  its  yellow  hair, 

its  curly  beard  verging  toward  red,  its  pink  skin, 

154 


PART    FOURTH  155 

and  blue  eyes  full  of  laughter,  might  have  served  a 
painter  as  a  model  for  the  head  of  Mirth.  Win- 
thorpe's, — with  brown  hair  cropped  close,  and  show 
ing  the  white  of  the  scalp ;  clean-shaven,  but  of  a 
steely  tint  where  the  razor  had  passed ;  with  a  marked 
jaw-bone  and  a  salient  square  chin;  with  a  high- 
bridged  determined  nose,  and  a  white  forehead  ris 
ing  vertical  over  thick  black  eyebrows,  and  rather 
deep-set  grey  eyes, — well,  clap  a  steeple-crowned 
hat  upon  it,  and  you  could  have  posed  him  for  one 
of  his  own  Puritan  ancestors.  The  very  clothes  of 
the  men  carried  on  their  unlikeness, — John's  loose 
blue  flannels  and  red  sailor's  knot/  careless-seeming, 
but  smart  in  their  effect,  and  showing  him  careful  in 
a  fashion  of  his  own ;  Winthorpe's  black  tie  and 
dark  tweeds,  as  correct  as  Savile  Row  could  turn 
them  out,  yet  somehow,  by  the  way  he  wore  them, 
proclaiming  him  immediately  a  man  who  never  gave 
two  thoughts  to  his  dress.  If,  however,  Winthorpe's 
face  was  the  face  of  a  Puritan,  it  was  the  face  of  a 
Puritan  with  a  sense  of  humour — the  lines  about  the 
mouth  were  clearly  the  footprints  of  smiles.  It 


156  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

seemed  the  face  of  a  sensitive  Puritan,  as  well,  and 
(maugre  that  high-bridged  nose)  of  a  gentle — the 
light  in  his  clear  grey  eyes  was  a  kindly  and  gentle 
light.  After  all,  Governor  Bradford,  as  his  writ 
ings  show, — though  he  tried  hard,  perhaps,  not  to 
let  them  show  it — was  a  Puritan  with  a  sense  of 
humour ;  John  Alden  and  Priscilla  were  surely  sensi 
tive  and  gentle :  and  Winthorpe  was  descended  from 
Governor  Bradford,  and  from  John  Alden  and  Pris 
cilla.  The  two  friends  walked  backward  and  for 
ward  in  the  great  open  space  before  the  castle,  and 
talked.  They  had  not  met  for  nearly  two  years,  and 
had  plenty  to  talk  about. 


II 


Seated  at  one  of  the  open  windows  of  the  pavilion 
beyond  the  clock,  Maria  Dolores  (in  a  pale  green 
confection  of  I  know  not  what  airy,  filmy  tissue) 
looked  down,  and  somewhat  vaguely  watched  them, 
— herself  concealed  by  the  netted  curtain,  which,  ac- 


PART  FOURTH  157 

cording  to  Italian  usage,  was  hung  across  the  case 
ment,  to  mitigate  the  heat  and  shut  out  insects.  She 
watched  them  at  first  vaguely,  and  only  from  time 
to  time,  for  the  rest  going  on  with  some  needlework 
she  had  in  her  lap.  But  by-and-by  she  dropped  her 
needlework  altogether,  and  her  watching  became 
continuous  and  absorbed. 

"What  a  singular-looking  man,"  she  thought, 
studying  Winthorpe.  "What  an  ascetic-looking 
man.  He  looks  like  an  early  Christian  martyr.  He 
looks  like  a  priest.  I  believe  he  is  a  priest.  English 
priests,"  she  remembered,  "when  they  travel,  often 
dress  as  laymen.  Yes,  he  is  a  priest,  and  a  terribly 
austere  one — I  shouldn't  like  to  go  to  him  to  con 
fession.  But  in  spite  of  his  austerity,  he  seems 
to  be  extraordinarily  happy  about  something 
just  at  present.  That  light  in  his  eyes, — it  is 
almost  a  light  of  estasy.  It  is  a  light  I  have 
never  seen  in  any  eyes,  save  those  of  priests  and 
nuns." 

Winthorpe,  while  that  "almost  ecstatic"  light 
shone  in  his  eyes,  had  been  speaking. 


158  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

Now,  as  he  paused,  John,  with  a  glance  of  gay 
astonishment,  halted,  and  turned  so  as  to  face 
him.  John's  lips  moved,  and  it  was  perfectly  plain 
that  he  was  exclaiming,  delightedly,  "Really? 
Really?" 

Winthorpe  joyously  nodded:  whereupon  John 
held  out  both  hands,  got  hold  of  his  friend's,  and, 
his  pink  face  jubilant,  shook  them  with  tremendous 
heartiness. 

"The  priest  has  received  advancement — he  is 
probably  to  be  made  a  bishop,"  inferred  Maria  Do 
lores;  "and  Signor  Prospero  is  congratulating 
hiiro" 

The  men  resumed  their  walk ;  but  for  quite  a  min 
ute  John  kept  his  hand  on  Winthorpe's  shoulder, 
and  again  and  again  gently  patted  it,  murmuring, 
"I  am  so  glad,  so  immensely  glad."  Maria  Dolores 
was  quite  sure  that  this  was  what  he  murmured,  for, 
though  no  word  could  reach  her,  John's  beaming 
face  spoke  louder  than  his  voice. 

At  last  John  let  his  hand  drop,  and,  eyebrows 
raised  a  little,  asked  a  question. 


PART    FOURTH  159 

"But  how  did  it  happen?  But  tell  me  all  about 
it,"  was  what  he  seemed  to  say. 

And  Winthorpe  (always  with  something  of  that 
ecstatic  light  in  his  eyes )  proceeded  to  answer.  But 
it  was  a  longish  story,  and  lasted  through  half  a 
dozen  of  their  forward  and  backward  ambulations. 
Apparently,  furthermore,  it  was  a  story  which,  as 
it  developed,  became  less  and  less  agreeable  to  the 
mind  of  John ;  for  his  face,  at  first  all  awake  with 
interest,  all  aglow  with  pleasure,  gradually  sobered, 
gradually  darkened,  took  on  a  frown,  expressed  dis 
sent,  expressed  disapprobation,  till,  finally,  with  an 
impatient  movement,  he  interrupted,  and  began — 
speaking  rapidly,  heatedly — to  protest,  to  remon 
strate. 

"Ah,"  thought  Maria  Dolores,  "the  priest  is  to  be 
made  a  bishop,  sure  enough, — but  a  missionary 
bishop.  It  isn't  for  nothing  that  he  looks  like  an 
early  Christian  martyr.  He  is  going  to  some  out 
landish,  savage  part  of  the  world,  where  he  will  be 
murdered  by  the  natives,  or  die  of  fever  or  loneliness. 
He  is  a  man  who  has  listened  to  the  Counsels  of  Per- 


160  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

fection.  But  his  unascetic  friend  Prospero  (one 
would  say  June  remonstrating  with  December)  can't 
bring  himself  to  like  it." 

John  remonstrated,  protested,  argued.  Win- 
thorpe,  calmly,  smilingly,  restated  his  purpose  and 
his  motives.  John  pleaded,  implored,  appealed  (so 
the  watcher  read  his  gesture)  to  earth,  to  Heaven. 
Winthorpe  took  his  arm,  and  calmly,  smilingly, 
tried  to  soothe,  tried  to  convince  him.  John  drew 
his  arm  free,  and,  employing  it  to  add  force  and  per 
suasiveness  to  his  speech,  renewed  his  arguments, 
pointed  out  how  unnecessary,  inhuman,  impossible 
the  whole  thing  was.  "It's  monstrous.  It's  against 
all  nature.  There's  no  reason  in  it.  What  does  it 
rhyme  with  ?  It's  wilfully  going  out  of  your  way  to 
seek,  to  create,  wretchedness.  My  mind  simply  re 
fuses  to  accept  it."  It  was  as  if  Maria  Dolores  could 
hear  the  words.  But  Winthorpe,  calm  and  smiling, 
would  not  be  moved.  John  shook  his  head,  mut 
tered,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  threw  up  his  hands, 
muttered  again.  "Was  ever  such  pig-headed  ob 
stinacy  !  Was  ever  such  arbitrary,  voluntary  blind- 


PART    FOURTH  161 

ness !  I  give  you  up,  for  a  perverse,  a  triple-pated 
madman !"  And  so,  John  muttering  and  frowning, 
Winthorpe  serenely  smiling,  reiterating,  they  passed 
round  the  corner  of  the  castle  buildings,  and  were 
lost  to  Maria  Dolores'  view. 


Ill 


That  afternoon,  seated  on  the  moss,  under  a  tall 
eucalyptus  tree  near  to  Frau  Brandt's  pavilion, 
Maria  Dolores  received  a  visit  from  Annunziata. 

Annunziata's  pale  little  face  was  paler,  her  big 
grave  eyes  were  graver,  even  than  their  wont.  She 
nodded  her  head,  slowly,  portentously;  and  her 
glance  was  heavy  with  significance. 

Maria  Dolores  smiled.  "What  is  the  matter?" 
she  cheerfully  inquired. 

"Ah,"  sighed  Annunziata,  deeply,  with  another 
portentous  head-shake,  "I  wish  I  knew." 

Maria  Dolores  laughed.    "Sit  down,"  she  sug- 


162  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

gested,  making  room  beside  her  on  the  moss,  "and 

try  to  think." 

Annunziata  sat  down,  curled  herself  up.  "Some 
thing  has  happened  to  Prospero,"  she  said,  de  pro- 
fundis. 

"Oh?"  asked  Maria  Dolores.  "What?"  She 
seemed  heartlessly  cheerful,  and  even  rather  amused. 

"Ah,"  sighed  Annunziata,  "that  is  what  I  wish  I 
knew.  He  has  had  a  friend  to  pass  the  day  with 
him." 

"Yes?"  said  Maria  Dolores.  "I  expect  I  saw  his 
friend  walking  with  him  this  morning  ?" 

"Gm,"  said  Annunziata.  "They  have  been  walk 
ing  about  all  day.  His  friend  Prospero  he  calls  him. 
But  he  doesn't  look  very  prosperous.  He  looks 
like  a  slate-pencil.  He  is  long  and  thin,  and 
dark  and  cold,  and  hard,  just  like  a  slate-pencil. 
He  would  not  stay  the  night,  though  we  had 
a  bed  prepared  for  him.  He  is  going  to  Rome, 
and  Prospero  has  driven  him  to  the  railway  station 
at  Cortello.  I  hate  him,"  wound  up  Annunziata, 
simply. 


PART    FOURTH  163 

"Mercy !"  exclaimed  Maria  Dolores,  opening  her 
eyes.  "Why  do  you  hate  him?" 

"Because  he  must  have  said  or  done  something 
very  unkind  to  Prospero,"  answered  Annunziata. 
"Oh  you  should  see  him.  He  is  so  sad — so  sad  and 
so  angry.  He  keeps  scowling,  and  shaking  his  head, 
and  saying  things  in  English,  which  I  cannot  under 
stand,  but  I  am  sure  they  are  sad  things  and  angry 
things.  And  he  would  not  eat  any  dinner, — no,  not 
that  much"  (Annunziata  measured  off  an  inch  on 
her  finger),  "he  who  always  eats  a  great  deal, — eh, 
ma  molto,  molto"  and,  separating  her  hands,  she 
measured  off  something  like  twenty  inches  in  the 
air. 

Maria  Dolores  couldn't  help  laughing  a  little  at 
this.  But  afterward  she  said,  on  a  key  consolatory, 
"Ah,  well,  he  has  gone  away  now,  so  let  us  hope  your 
friend  Prospero  will  promptly  recover  his  accus 
tomed  appetite." 

"Yes,"  said  Annunziata,  "I  hope  so.  But  oh, 
that  old  slate-pencil  man,  how  I  hate  him !  I  would 
like  to — Mih!"  She  clenched  her  little  white  fist, 


164  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

and  shook  it,  threateningly,  vehemently,  while  her 
eyes  fiercely  flashed.  .  .  .  Next  instant,  however, 
her  mien  entirely  changed.  Like  a  light  extin 
guished,  all  the  fierceness  went  out  of  her  face,  mak 
ing  way  for  what  seemed  pain  and  terror.  "There," 
she  cried,  pain  and  terror  in  her  voice,  "I  have 
offended  God.  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry,  so  sorry.  My 
sin,  my  sin,  my  sin,"  she  murmured,  bowing  her 
head,  and  thrice  striking  her  breast.  "I  take  back 
every  word  I  said.  I  do  not  hate  him.  I  would  not 
hurt  him — I  would  not  even  stick  a  pin  in  him — if  I 
had  him  at  my  mercy.  No — I  would  do  anything  I 
could  to  help  him.  I  would  give  him  anything  I  had 
that  he  could  want.  I  would  give  him  my  coral 
rosary.  I  would  give  him" — she  hesitated,  strug 
gled,  and  at  last,  drawing  a  deep  breath,  gritting 
her  teeth,  in  supreme  renunciation — "yes,  I  would 
give  him  my  tame  kid,"  she  forced  herself  to  pro 
nounce,  with  a  kind  of  desperate  firmness.  "But 
see,"  she  wailed,  her  little  white  brow  a  mesh  of  pain 
ful  wrinkles,  "it  is  all  no  good.  God  is  still  angry. 
Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?"  And,  to  the  surprise  and  dis- 


PART  FOURTH  165 

tress  of  Maria  Dolores,  she  burst  into  a  sudden  pas 
sion  of  tears,  sobbing,  sobbing,  with  that  abandon 
ment  of  grief  which  only  children  know. 

"My  dear,  my  dear,"  exclaimed  Maria  Dolores, 
drawing  her  to  her.  "My  dearest,  you  mustn't  cry 
like  that.  Dear  little  Annunziata.  What  is  it? 
Why  do  you  cry  so,  dear  one?  Answer  me.  Tell 
me." 

But  Annunziata  only  buried  her  face  in  Maria 
Dolores'  sleeve,  and  moaned,  while  long,  tremulous 
convulsions  shook  her  frail  little  body.  Maria  Do 
lores  put  both  arms  about  her,  hugged  her  close,  and 
laid  her  cheek  upon  her  hair. 

"Darling  Annunziata,  don't  cry.  Why  should 
you  cry  so,  dearest?  God  is  not  angry  with  you. 
Why  should  you  think  that  God  is  angry  with 
you?  God  loves  you,  darling.  Everyone  loves 
you.  There,  there — dearest — don't  cry.  Sweet 
one,  dear  one." 

Transitions,  with  Annunziata,  were  sometimes  in 
explicably  rapid.  All  at  once  her  sobbing  ceased; 
she  looked  up,  and  smiled,  smiled  radiantly,  from  a 


166  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

face  that  was  wet  and  glistening  with  tears. 
"Thanks  be  to  God,"  she  piously  exulted ;  "God  is 
not  angry  any  more." 

"Of  course  He  isn't,"  said  Maria  Dolores,  tight 
ening  her  hug,  and  touching  Annunziata's  curls 
lightly  with  her  lips.  "But  He  was  never  angry. 
What  made  you  think  that  God  was  angry  ?" 

Annunziata's  big  eyes  widened.  "Didn't  you 
notice?"  she  asked,  in  a  hushed  voice,  amazed. 

"No,"  wondered  Maria  Dolores.  "What  was 
there  to  notice  ?" 

"He  made  them  draw  a  cloud  over  the  sun,"  An- 
nunziata  whispered.  "Didn't  you  notice  that  when 
I  said  I  would  like  to — when  I  said  what  I  said  about 
that  friend  of  Prospero's — just  then  they  drew  a 
cloud  across  the  sun?  That  is  a  sign  that  God  is 
angry.  The  sun,  you  know,  is  the  window  in 
Heaven  through  which  God  looks  down  on  the  world, 
and  through  which  the  light  of  Heaven  shines  on  the 
world.  And  when  the  window  is  open,  we  feel  happy 
and  thankful,  and  wish  to  sing  and  laugh.  But 
when  we  have  done  something  to  make  God  angry 


PART  FOURTH  167 

with  us,  then  He  sends  angels  to  draw  clouds  over  the 
window,  so  that  we  may  be  shut  out  of  His  sight,  and 
the  light  of  Heaven  may  be  shut  off  from  us.  And 
then  we  are  lonely  and  cold,  and  we  could  quarrel 
with  anything,  even  with  the  pigs.  God  wishes  to 
show  us  how  bad  it  would  be  always  to  be  shut  off 
from  His  sight.  But  now  they  have  drawn  the 
cloud  away,  so  God  is  not  angry  any  more.  I 
made  a  good  act  of  contrition,  and  He  has  for 
given  me." 

Maria  Dolores  smiled,  but  under  her  smile  there 
was  a  look  of  seriousness,  a  look  of  concern. 

"My  dear,"  she  said  smiling,  and  looking  con 
cerned,  "you  should  try  to  control  your  vivid  little 
imagination.  If  every  time  a  cloud  crosses  the  sun, 
you  are  going  to  assume  the  responsibility  for  it, 
and  to  fancy  that  you  have  offended  God,  I'm 
afraid  you'll  have  rather  an  agitated  life." 

"Oh,  no;  not  every  time,"  exclaimed  Annun- 
ziata,  and  she  was  manifestly  on  the  point  of  mak 
ing  a  fine  distinction,  when  abruptly  the  current 
of  her  ideas  was  diverted.  "Sh-h!  There  comes 


168  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

Prospero,"  she  cried,  starting  up.  "I  can  see  the 
top  of  his  white  hat  above  the  rhododendron 
bushes.  He  has  driven  his  friend  to  Cortello,  and 
come  home.  I  must  run  away,  or  he  will  see  that 
I've  been  crying.  Don't  tell  him,"  she  begged, 
putting  her  finger  on  her  lips ;  and  she  set  off  run 
ning,  toward  the  presbytery,  just  as  John  stepped 
forth  from  behind  the  long  hedge  of  rhododen 
drons. 


IV 


John  stepped  forth  from  behind  the  rhododen 
drons,  with  a  kind  of  devil-may-care,  loose,  aim 
less  gait,  the  brim  of  his  Panama  pulled  brigand- 
ishly  down  over  one  ear,  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of 
his  coat,  his  head  bent,  his  brow  creased,  his  eyes 
sombre,  every  line  and  fibre  of  his  person  adver 
tising  him  the  prey  of  morose  disgust.  But  when 
he  saw  Maria  Dolores,  he  hastily  straightened  up, 
unpocketed  his  hands,  took  off  his  hat  (giving  it 


PART  FOURTH  169 

a  flap  that  set  the  brim  at  a  less  truculent  angle), 
and  smiled.  And  when,  the  instant  after,  he 
caught  sight  of  the  flying  form  of  Annunziata,  his 
smile  turned  into  a  glance  of  wonder. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  Annunziata?  Why 
is  she  running  with  all  her  legs  like  that?"  he 
asked. 

Maria  Dolores  had  the  tiniest  catch  of  laughter. 
"She  is  running  away  from  you,"  she  answered. 

"From  me?"  marvelled  John.  "Je  suis  done  wn 
foudre  de  guerre?  What  on  earth  is  she  running 
away  from  me  for?" 

Maria  Dolores  smiled  mysteriously. 

"Ah,"  she  said,  "she  asked  me  not  to  tell  you. 
I  am  in  the  delicate  position  of  confidante." 

"And  therefore  I  hope  you'll  tell  me  with  the 
less  reluctance,"  said  John,  urbanely  unprincipled. 
"A  confidante  always  betrays  her  confidence  to 
someone, — that's  the  part  of  the  game  that  makes 
it  worth  while." 

Maria  Dolores'  smile  deepened. 

"In  that  pale-green  frock,  on  that  bank  of  dark- 


l?0  MY   FRIEND    PROSPERO 

green  moss,  with  her  complexion  and  her  hair, — 
by  Jove,  how  stunning  she  is,"  thought  John,  in 
a  commotion. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "Annunziata  ran  away  be 
cause  she  didn't  want  you  to  see  that  she'd  been 
crying." 

John  raised  his  eyebrows,  the  blue  eyes  under 
them  becoming  expressive  of  dismay. 

"Crying?"  he  echoed.  "The  poor  little  kiddie. 
What  had  she  been  crying  about?" 

"That  is  a  long  story,  and  involves  some  of  her 
peculiar  theological  tenets,"  said  Maria  Dolores. 
"But,  in  a  single  word,  about  your  friend." 

John's  eyebrows  descended  to  their  normal  level, 
and  drew  together. 

"Crying  about  my  friend?  What  friend?"  he 
puzzled. 

"Your  friend  the  priest — the  man  who  has  been 
passing  the  day  here  with  you,"  explained  Maria 
Dolores. 

John  gave  a  start,  threw  back  his  head,  and  eyed 
her  with  astonishment. 


PART    FOURTH  171 

"That  is  extraordinary,"  he  exclaimed. 

"What?"  asked  she,  lightly  glancing  up. 

"That  you  should  call  him  my  friend  the  priest," 
said  John,  wagging  a  bewildered  head. 

"Why?  Isn't  he  a  priest?  He  has  all  the  air  of 
one,"  said  Maria  Dolores. 

"No,  he's  an  American  millionaire,"  said  John, 
succinctly. 

Maria  Dolores  moved  in  her  place,  and  laughed. 

"Dear  me,"  she  said,  "I  did  strike  wide  of  the 
mark.  An  American  millionaire  should  cultivate 
a  less  deceptive  appearance.  With  that  thin, 
shaven  face  of  his,  and  that  look  of  an  early 
Christian  martyr  in  his  eyes,  and  the  dark  clothes 
he  wears,  wherever  he  goes  he's  sure  to  be  mistaken 
for  a  priest." 

"Yes,"  said  John,  with  a  kind  of  grimness; 
"that's  what's  extraordinary.  He  comes  of  a  long 
line  of  bigoted  Protestants,  he's  a  reincarnation  of 
some  of  his  stern  old  Puritan  forebears,  and  you  find 
that  he  looks  like  their  pet  abomination,  a  Romish 
priest.  Well,  you  have  a  prophetic  eye." 


172  MY   FRIEND    PROSPERO 

Maria  Dolores  gazed  up  inquiringly.  "A  pro 
phetic  eye?"  she  questioned. 

"I  merely  mean,"  said  John,  with  thaumaturgic 
airiness,  "that  the  man  is  on  his  way  to  Rome  to 
study  for  the  priesthood."  And  he  gave  a  thauma 
turgic  toss  to  his  bearded  chin. 

"Oh!"  cried  Maria  Dolores,  and  leaned  back 
against  her  eucalyptus  tree,  and  laughed  again. 

John,  however,  dejectedly  sliook  his  head,  and 
gloomed. 

"Laugh  if  you  will,"  he  said,  "though  it  seems  to 
me  as  far  as  possible  from  a  laughing  matter,  and  I 
think  Annunziata  chose  the  better  part  when  she 
cried." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Maria  Dolores,  per 
haps  a  trifle  stiffly.  "I  was  only  laughing  at  the 
coincidence  of  my  having  supposed  him  to  be  a 
priest,  and  then  learning  that,  though  he  isn't,  he  is 
going  to  become  one.  I  was  not  laughing  at  the  fact 
itself.  Nor  was  it,"  she  added,  her  stiffness  leaving 
her,  and  a  little  glimmer  of  amusement  taking  its 
place,  "that  fact  which  made  Annunziata  cry." 


PART    FOURTH  173 

"I  daresay  not,"  responded  John,  "seeing  that 
she  couldn't  possibly  have  known  it.  But  it  might 
well  have  done  so.  It's  enough  to  bring  tears  to  the 
eyes  of  a  brazen  image."  He  angrily  jerked  his 
shoulders. 

"What?"  cried  Maria  Dolores,  surprised,  re- 
bukeful.  "That  a  man  is  to  become  a  holy 
priest?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  John.  "That  fact  alone,  detached 
from  special  circumstances,  might  be  a  subject  for 
rejoicing.  But  the  fact  that  this  particular  man,  in 
his  special  circumstances,  is  to  become  a  priest — well, 
I  simply  have  no  words  to  express  my  feeling."  He 
threw  out  his  arms,  in  a  gesture  of  despair.  "I'm 
simply  sick  with  rage  and  pity.  I  could  gnash  my 
teeth  and  rend  my  garments." 

"Mercy !"  cried  Maria  Dolores,  stirring.  "What 
are  the  special  circumstances  ?" 

"Oh,  it's  a  grisly  history,"  said  John.  "It's  a 
tale  of  the  wanton,  ruthless,  needless,  purposeless 
sacrifice  of  two  lives.  It's  his  old  black  icy  Puritan 
blood.  Winthorpe — that's  his  name — had  for  years 


174  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

been  a  freethinker,  far  too  intellectual  and  enlight 
ened,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know,  to  believe 
any  such  old  wives'  tale  as  the  Christian  religion. 
He  and  I  used  to  have  arguments,  tremendous  ones, 
in  which,  of  course,  neither  in  the  least  shook  the 
other.  Darwin  and  Spencer,  with  a  dash  of  his  na 
tive  Emerson,  were  religion  enough  for  him.  Then 
this  morning  he  arrived  here,  and  said,  *  Congratu 
late  me.  A  month  ago  I  was  received  into  the 
Church.' " 

Maria  Dolores  looked  up,  animated,  her  dark  eyes 
sparkling. 

"How  splendid,"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  agreed  John,  "so  I  thought.  'Congratu 
late  me,'  he  said.  I  should  think  I  did  congratulate 
him, — with  all  my  heart  and  soul.  But  then,  natu 
rally,  I  asked  him  how  it  had  happened,  what  had 
brought  it  to  pass." 

"Yes — ?"  prompted  Maria  Dolores,  as  he  paused. 

"Well,"  said  John,  his  face  hardening,  "he  there 
upon  proceeded  to  tell  me  in  his  quiet  way,  with  his 
cool  voice  (it's  like  smooth-flowing  cold  water),  ab- 


PART  FOURTH  175 

solutely  the  most  inhuman  story  I  have  ever  had  to 
keep  my  patience  and  listen  to." 

"What  was  the  story  ?"  asked  Maria  Dolores. 

"If  you  can  credit  such  inhumanity,  it  was  this," 
answered  John.  "It  seems  that  he  fell  in  love — with 
a  girl  in  Boston,  where  he  lives.  And  what's  more, 
and  worse,  the  girl  fell  in  love  with  him.  So  there 
they  were,  engaged.  But  she  was  a  Catholic,  and 
his  state  of  unbelief  was  a  cause  of  great  grief  to 
her.  So  she  pleaded  with  him,  and  persuaded,  till, 
merely  to  comfort  her,  and  without  the  faintest  sus 
picion  that  his  scepticism  could  be  weakened,  he 
promised  to  give  the  Catholic  position  a  thorough 
reconsideration,  to  read  certain  books,  and  to  put 
himself  under  instruction  with  a  priest:  which  he 
did.  Which  he  did,  if  you  please,  with  the  result,  to 
his  own  unutterable  surprise,  that  one  fine  day  he 
woke  up  and  discovered  that  he'd  been  convinced, 
that  he  believed." 

"Yes?"  said  Maria  Dolores,  eagerly.  "Yes — ? 
And  then?  And  the  girl?" 

"Ah,"  said  John,  with  a  groan,  "the  girl !    That's 


176  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

the  pity  of  it.  That's  where  his  black  old  Puritan 
blood  comes  in.  Blood?  It  isn't  blood — it's  some 
fluid  form  of  stone — it's  flint  dissolved  in  vinegar. 
The  girl !  Mind  you,  she  loved  him,  they  were  en 
gaged  to  be  married.  Well,  he  went  to  her,  and 
said,  'I  have  been  converted.  I  believe  in  the  Chris 
tian  religion — your  religion.  But  I  can't  believe  a 
thing  like  that,  and  go  on  living  as  I  lived  when  I 
didn't  believe  it, — go  on  living  as  if  it  weren't  true, 
or  didn't  matter.  It  does  matter — it  matters  su 
premely — it's  the  only  thing  in  the  world  that  mat 
ters.  I  can't  believe  it,  and  marry — marry,  and  live 
in  tranquil  indifference  to  it.  No,  I  must  put  aside 
the  thought  of  marriage,  the  thought  of  personal 
happiness.  I  must  sell  all  I  have  and  give  it  to  the 
poor,  take  up  my  cross  and  follow  Him.  I  am  going 
to  Rome  to  study  for  the  priesthood.'  Imagine/' 
groaned  John,  stretching  out  his  hands,  "imagine 
talking  like  that  to  a  woman  you  are  supposed  to 
love,  to  a  woman  who  loves  you."  And  he  wrath- 
fully  ground  his  heel  into  the  earth. 
Maria  Dolores  looked  serious. 


PART    FOURTH  177 

"After  all,  he  had  to  obey  his  conscience,"  she 
said.  "After  all,  he  was  logical,  he  was  consistent." 

"Oh,  his  conscience!  Oh,  consistency!"  cried 
John,  with  an  intolerant  fling  of  the  body.  "At  bot 
tom  it's  nothing  better  than  common  self-indulgence, 
as  I  took  the  liberty  of  telling  him  to  his  face.  It's 
the  ardour  of  the  convert,  acting  upon  that  acid 
solution  of  flint  which  takes  the  place  of  blood  in  his 
veins,  and  causing  sour  puritanical  impulses  which 
(like  any  other  voluptuary)  he  immediately  gives 
way  to.  It's  nothing  better  than  unbridled  passion. 
Conscience,  indeed !  Where  was  his  conscience  when 
it  came  to  her?  Think  of  that  poor  girl — that 
poor  pale  girl — who  loved  him.  Oh,  Mother  of 
Mercy !" 

He  moved  impatiently  three  steps  to  the  left, 
three  steps  to  the  right,  beating  the  palm  of  one 
hand  with  the  back  of  the  other. 

"What  did  she  do?  How  did  she  take  it?"  asked 
Maria  Dolores. 

"What  she  ought  to  have  done,"  said  John,  be 
tween  his  teeth,  "was  to  scratch  his  eyes  out.  What 


178  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

she  did  do,  as  he  informed  me  with  a  seraphic  coun 
tenance,  was  not  merely  to  approve  of  everything  he 
said,  but  to  determine  to  do  likewise.  So,  while  he's 
on  his  way  to  Rome,  to  get  himself  tonsured  and  be- 
cassocked,  she's  scrubbing  the  floors  of  an  Ursuline  . 
convent,  as  a  novice.  And  there  are  two  lives 
spoiled."  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  contended  Maria  Dolores,  earnestly, 
shaking  her  head,  "not  spoiled.  On  the  contrary. 
It  is  sad,  in  a  way,  if  you  like,  but  it  is  very  beauti 
ful,  it  is  heroic.  Their  love  must  have  been  a  very 
beautiful  love,  that  could  lead  them  to  such  self- 
sacrifice.  Two  lives  given  to  God." 

"Can't  people  give  their  lives  to  God  without 
ceasing  to  live?"  cried  John.  "If  marriage  is  a 
sacrament,  how  can  they  better  give  their  lives  to 
God  than  by  living  sanely  and  sweetly  in  Christian 
marriage?  But  these  people  withdraw  from  life, 
renounce  life,  shirk  and  evade  the  life  that  God  had 
prepared  for  them  and  was  demanding  of  them.  It's 
as  bad  as  suicide.  Besides,  it  implies  such  a  totally 
perverted  view  of  religion.  Religion  surely  is  given 


PART  FOURTH  179 

to  us  to  help  us  to  live,  to  show  us  how  to  live,  to 
enable  us  to  meet  the  difficulties,  emergencies,  re 
sponsibilities  of  life.  But  these  people  look  upon 
their  religion  as  a  mandate  to  turn  their  backs  on 
the  responsibilities  of  life,  and  scuttle  away.  And 
as  for  love!  Well,  she  no  doubt  did  love,  poor  lady. 
But  Winthorpe !  No.  When  a  man  loves  he  doesn't 
send  his  love  into  a  convent,  and  go  to  Rome  to  get 
himself  becassocked."  He  gave  his  head  a  nod  of 
finality. 

"That,  I  fancy,  is  a  question  of  temperament," 
said  Maria  Dolores.  "Your  friend  has  the  ascetic 
temperament.  And  it  does  not  by  any  means  follow 
that  he  loves  less  because  he  resigns  his  love.  What 
you  call  an  inhuman  story  seems  to  me  a  wonderfully 
noble  one.  I  saw  your  friend  this  morning,  when  he 
and  you  were  walking  together,  and  I  said  to  myself, 
that  man  looks  as  if  he  had  listened  to  the  Counsels 
of  Perfection.  His  vocation  shines  through  him.  I 
think  you  should  reconcile  yourself  to  his  accept 
ing  it." 

"Well,"  said  John,  on  the  tone  of  a  man  ready  to 


180  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

change  the  subject,  "I  owe  him  at  least  one  good 
mark.  His  account  of  his  'heart-state'  led  me  to  ex 
amine  my  own,  and  I  discovered  that  I  am  in  love 
myself, — which  is  a  useful  thing  to  know." 

"Oh?"  said  Maria  Dolores,  with  a  little  effect  of 
reserve. 

"Yes,"  said  John,  nothing  daunted,  "though  un 
like  his,  mine  is  an  unreciprocated  flame,  and  un- 
avowed." 

"Ah?"  said  Maria  Dolores,  reserved  indeed,  but 
not  without  an  undertone  of  sympathy. 

"Yes,"  said  John,  playing  with  fire,  and  finding 
therein  a  heady  mixture  of  fearfulness  and  joy. 
"The  woman  I  love  doesn't  dream  I  love  her,  and 
dreams  still  less  of  loving  me, — for  which  blessed 
circumstance  may  Heaven  make  me  truly  thank 
ful." 

The  sentiment  sounding  unlikely,  Maria  Dolores 
raised  doubtful  eyes.  They  shone  into  John's;  his 
drank  their  light ;  and  something  violent  happened 
in  his  bosom. 

"Oh—  ?"  she  said. 


PART    FOURTH  181 

"Yes,"  said  he,  thinking  what  adorable  little 
hands  she  had,  as  they  lay  loosely  clasped  in  her  lap, 
thinking  how  warm  they  would  be,  and  fragrant; 
thinking  too  what  fun  it  was,  this  playing  with  fire, 
how  perilous  and  exciting,  and  how  egotistical  he 
must  seem  to  her,  and  how  nothing  on  earth  should 
prevent  him  from  continuing  the  play.  "Yes,"  he 
said,  "it's  a  circumstance  to  be  thankful  for,  be 
cause,  like  Winthorpe  himself,  though  for  different 
reasons,  I'm  unable  to  contemplate  marriage."  His 
voice  sank  sorrowfully,  and  he  made  a  sorrowful 
movement. 

"Oh — ?"  said  Maria  Dolores,  her  sympathy  be 
coming  more  explicit. 

"Winthorpe's  too  beastly  puritanical — and  I'm 
too  beastly  poor,"  said  he. 

"Oh,"  she  murmured.  Her  eyes  softened;  her 
sympathy  deepened  to  compassion. 

"She  must  certainly  put  me  down  as  the  most 
complacent  egotist  in  two  hemispheres,  so  to  regale 
her  with  unsolicited  information  about  myself," 
thought  John ;  "but  surely  it  would  need  six  hemi- 


182  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

spheres  to  produce  another  pair  of  eyes  as  beautiful 
as  hers." — "Yes,"  he  said,  "I  should  be  'looking  up' 
if  I  asked  even  a  beggar  maid  to  marry  me." 

Maria  Dolores'  beautiful  eyes  became  thoughtful 
as  well  as  compassionate. 

"But  men  who  are  poor  work  and  earn  money," 
she  said,  on  the  tone  that  young  women  adopt  when 
the  spirit  moves  them  to  preach  to  young  men.  And 
when  the  spirit  does  move  them  to  that,  things  may 
be  looked  upon  as  having  advanced  an  appre 
ciable  distance,  the  ball  may  be  looked  upon  as 
rolling. 

"So  I've  heard,"  said  John,  his  head  in  the  clouds. 
"It  must  be  dull  business." 

Maria  Dolores  dimly  smiled.  "Do  you  do  no 
work  ?"  she  asked. 

"I've  never  had  time,"  said  John.  "I've  been  too 
busy  enjoying  life." 

"Oh,"  said  Maria  Dolores,  with  the  intonation  of 
reproach. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "enjoying  the  Humour,  the 
Romance,  the  Beauty  of  it, — and  combine  the 


PART    FOURTH  183 

three  together,  make  a  chord  of  'em,  you  get  the 
Divinity.  Or,  to  take  a  lower  plane,  the  world's 
a  stage,  and  life's  the  drama.  I  could  never  leave 
off  watching  and  listening  long  enough  to  do  any 
work." 

"But  do  you  not  wish  to  play  a  part  in  the  drama, 
to  be  one  of  the  actors?"  asked  his  gentle  homilist. 
"Have  you  no  ambition?" 

"Not  an  atom,"  he  easily  confessed.  "The  part 
of  spectator  seems  to  me  by  far  the  pleasantest.  To 
sit  in  the  stalls  and  watch  the  incredible  jumble- 
show,  the  reason-defying  topsey-turveydom  of  it, 
the  gorgeous,  squalid,  tearful,  and  mirthful  pa 
geantry,  the  reckless  inconsequences,  the  flagrant 
impossibilities ;  to  watch  the  Devil  ramping  up  and 
down  like  a  hungry  lion,  and  to  hear  the  young-eyed 
cherubins  choiring  from  the  skies :  what  better  enter 
tainment  could  the  heart  of  man  desire  ?" 

"But  are  we  here  merely  to  be  entertained?"  she 
sweetly  preached,  while  John's  blue  eyes  somewhat 
mischievously  laughed,  and  he  felt  it  hard  that  he 
couldn't  stop  her  rose-red  mouth  with  kisses. 


184  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"Aren't  we  here  to  be,  as  the  old-fashioned  phrase 
goes,  of  use  in  the  world  ?  Besides,  now  that  you  are 
in  love,  surely  you  will  never  sit  down  weakly,  and 
say,  'I  am  too  poor  to  marry,'  and  so  give  up  your 
love, — like  your  friend  Winthorpe  indeed,  but  for 
ignoble  instead  of  noble  motives.  Surely  you  will 
set  to  work  with  determination,  and  earn  money,  and 
make  it  possible  to  marry.  Or  else  your  love  must 
be  a  very  poor  affair."  And  her  adorable  little 
hands,  as  they  lay  ("like  white  lilies,"  thought 
John )  upon  the  pale-green  fabric  of  her  gown,  un 
clasped  themselves,  opened  wide  for  an  instant, 
showing  the  faint  pink  of  their  palms,  then  lightly 
again  interlaced  their  fingers. 

He  laughed.  "You  are  delicious,"  he  said  to  her 
fervently,  in  silence.  "My  love  is  all  right,"  he  said 
aloud.  "I  love  her  as  much  as  it  is  humanly  possible 
to  love.  I  love  her  with  passion,  with  tenderness; 
with  worship,  with  longing ;  I  love  her  with  wonder ; 
I  love  her  with  sighs,  with  laughter.  I  love  her  with 
all  I  have  and  with  all  I  am.  And  I  owe  one  to  Win 
thorpe  for  having  unwittingly  opened  my  eyes  to 


PART  FOURTH  185 

my  condition.  But  earning  money?  I've  a  notion 
it's  difficult.  What  could  I  do  ?" 

"Have  you  no  profession  ?"  she  asked. 

"Not  the  ghost  of  one,"  said  he,  with  nonchalance. 

"But  is  there  no  profession  that  appeals  to  you — 
for  which  you  feel  that  you  might  have  a  taste?" 
Her  dark  eyes  were  very  earnest. 

"Not  the  ghost  of  one,"  said  he,  dissembling  his 
amusement.  "Professions — don't  they  all  more  or 
less  involve  sitting  shut  up  in  stuffy  offices,  among 
pigeon-holes  full  of  dusty  and  futile  papers,  doing 
tiresome  tasks  for  the  greater  glory  of  other  people, 
like  a  slave  in  the  hold  of  a  galley  ?  No,  if  I'm  to 
work,  I  must  work  at  something  that  will  keep  me 
above  decks — something  that  will  keep  me  out  of 
doors,  in  touch  with  the  air  and  the  earth.  I  might 
become  an  agricultural  labourer, — but  that's  not 
very  munificently  paid;  or  a  farmer, — but  that 
would  require  perhaps  more  capital  than  I  could 
command,  and  anyhow  the  profits  are  uncertain. 
I've  an  uncle  who's  a  bit  of  a  farmer,  and  year  in, 
year  out,  I  believe  he  makes  a  loss.  Well,  what's 


186  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

left?    .    .    .    Ah,    a    gardener.    I    don't   think    I 

should  half  mind  being  a  gardener." 

Maria  Dolores  looked  as  if  she  weren't  sure 
whether  or  not  to  take  him  seriously. 

"A  gardener?  That's  not  very  munificently  paid 
either,  is  it?"  she  suggested,  trying  her  ground. 

"Alas,  I  fear  not,"  sighed  John.  Then  he  made 
a  grave  face.  "But  would  you  have  me  entirely 
mercenary  ?  Money  isn't  everything  here  below." 

Maria  Dolores  smiled.  She  saw  that  for  the  mo 
ment  at  least  he  was  not  to  be  taken  seriously. 

"True,"  she  agreed,  "though  it  ran  in  my  mind 
that  to  earn  money,  so  that  you  might  marry,  was 
your  only  motive  for  going  to  work  at  all." 

"I  had  forgotten  that,"  said  the  light-minded  fel 
low.  "I  was  thinking  of  occupations  that  would 
keep  one  in  touch  with  the  earth.  A  gardener's  oc 
cupation  keeps  him  constantly  in  the  charmingest 
possible  sort  of  touch  with  her,  and  the  most  inti 
mate." 

"Do  they  call  the  earth  her  in  English?"  asked 
Maria  Dolores.  "I  thought  they  said  it." 


PART    FOURTH  187 

"I'm  afraid,  for  the  greater  part,  they  do,"  an 
swered  John.  "But  it's  barbarous  of  them,  it's  un- 
filial.  Our  brown  old  mother,  fancy  begrudging 
her  the  credit  of  her  sex.  Our  brown  and  green  old 
mother ;  our  kindly,  bounteous  mother ;  our  radiant, 
our  queenly  mother,  old,  and  yet  perennially,  radi 
antly  young.  Look  at  her  now,"  he  cried,  circling 
the  garden  with  his  arm,  and  pointing  to  the  farther 
landscape,  "look  at  her,  shining  in  her  robes  of  pearl 
and  gold,  shining  and  smiling, — one  would  say  a 
bride  arrayed  for  the  altar.  Such  is  her  infinite 
variety.  Her  infinite  variety,  her  infinite  abun 
dance,  the  fragrance  and  the  sweetness  of  her, 
— oh,  I  could  fall  upon  my  face  and  worship 
her,  like  a  Pagan  of  Eld.  The  earth  and  all 
that  grows  and  lives  upon  her,  the  blossoming 
tree,  the  singing  bird, — I  could  build  temples  to 
her." 

"And  the  crawling  snake?"  put  in  Maria  Dolores, 
a  gleam  at  the  bottom  of  her  eyes. 

"The  crawling  snake,"  quickly  retorted  John, 
"serves  a  most  useful  purpose.  He  establishes  the 


188  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

raison  d'etre  of  man.  Man  and  his  heel  are  here  to 
crush  the  serpent's  head." 

Maria  Dolores  leaned  back,  softly  laughing. 

"Your  infatuation  for  the  earth  is  so  great,"  she 
said,  "mightn't  your  ladylove,  if  she  suspected  it,  be 
jealous?" 

"No,"  said  John,  "it  is  the  earth  that  might  be 
jealous,  for,  until  I  saw  my  ladylove,  she  was  the 
undivided  mistress  of  my  heart.  For  the  rest,  my 
ladylove  enjoys,  upon  this  point,  my  entire  confi 
dence.  I  have  kept  nothing  from  her." 

"That  is  well,"  approved  Maria  Dolores.  "And 
the  sky  and  the  sea,"  still  softly  laughing,  she  asked, 
"have  they  no  place  in  your  affections  ?" 

"The  sky  is  her  tiring-maiden,  and  I  love  the  sky 
for  that,"  said  John.  "  'Tis  the  sky  that  clothes  her 
in  her  many-coloured  raiment,  and  holds  the  light 
whereby  her  beauty  is  made  manifest.  And  the  sea 
is  a  jewel  that  she  bears  upon  her  bosom, — a  magical 
jewel,  whence,  with  the  sky's  aid,  she  draws  the  soft 
rain  that  is  her  scent  and  her  cosmetic.  'Fragrant 
the  fertile  earth  after  soft  showers.'  Do  you  know, 


PART  FOURTH  189 

I  could  almost  forgive  the  dour  and  detestable  Mil 
ton  everything  for  the  sake  of  those  seven  words. 
They  show  that  in  the  sense  of  smell  he  had  at  least 
one  attribute  of  humanity." 

Maria  Dolores'  dark  eyes  were  quizzical. 

"The  dour  and  detestable  Milton?"  she  exclaimed. 
"Poor  Milton!  What  has  he  done  to  merit  such 
anathema  ?" 

"It  isn't  what  he  has  done,  but  what  he  was"  said 
John.  "That  he  was  dour  nobody  will  deny,  dour 
and  sour  and  inhuman.  Ask  those  unfortunate, 
long-suffering  daughters  of  his,  if  you  doubt  it. 
They  could  tell  you  stories.  But  he  was  worse.  He 
was  a  scribe  and  a  pharisee,  a  pragmatical,  self- 
righteous,  canting  old  scribe  and  pharisee.  And  he 
was  worse  still,  and  still  worse  yet.  He  was — what 
seems  to  me  to-day  the  worstest  thing  unhung — he 
was  a  Puritan.  Like  Winthorpe's,  his  blood  was 
black  and  icy  and  vinegarish.  Like  Winthorpe — 
But  there.  I  mustn't  abuse  Winthorpe  any  more, 
and  I  must  try  to  forgive  Milton.  Milton  wrote 
seven  good  words,  and  Winthorpe  unwittingly 
opened  a  lover's  eyes  to  his  condition." 


190  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

He  paused,  and  smiled  down  upon  her,  and  his 
newly  opened  (and  very  blue)  blue  eyes  said  much. 
Her  eyes  were  dreaming  on  the  landscape,  where  it 
shone  in  pearl  and  gold.  However,  as  she  gave  no 
sign  of  finding  his  conversation  wearisome,  he  took 
heart,  and  continued. 

"For  when  he  told  me  how  he  had  put  his  love 
away,  never  again  to  see  her,  and  how  at  that  mo 
ment  she  would  be  scrubbing  floors  (or  taking  the 
discipline,  perhaps?)  in  a  convent  of  Ursulines,  sud 
denly,  and  without  any  action  of  the  will  on  my  part, 
there  rose  before  me  the  vision  of  a  certain  woman ; 
— a  woman  I  knew  a  little,  admired  immensely,  very 
much  liked,  but  didn't  for  an  instant  suppose  I  was 
seriously  in  love  with.  And  involuntarily,  with  the 
vision  of  her  before  me,  I  asked  myself  whether, 
mutatis  mutandis,  I  could  have  done  as  he  had,  and 
in  a  flash  I  saw  that  I  could  not, — that  not  for  the 
wealth  of  Ormus  and  of  Ind  could  I  or  would  I  give 
her  up,  if  once  I  had  her.  So,  by  that  token,  and  by 
the  uncommon  wrath  with  which  his  tale  inflamed 
me,"  John,  with  a  rhetorical  flourish,  perorated,  "I 


PART  FOURTH  191 

discovered  that  I  loved."  And  again  his  eyes  said 
much. 

Hers  were  still  on  the  prospect. 

"Yet  if  you  only  know  her  a  little,  how  can  you 
love  her?"  she  asked,  in  a  musing  voice. 

"Did  I  say  I  only  know  her  a  little?"  asked  John. 
"I  know  her  a  great  deal.  I  know  her  through  and 
through.  I  know  that  she  is  pure  gold,  pure  crys 
tal  ;  that  she  is  made  of  all  music,  all  light,  all  sweet 
ness,  and  of  all  shadow  and  silence  and  mystery  too, 
as  women  should  be.  I  know  that  earth  holds  naught 
above  her.  I  do  not  care  to  employ  superlatives,  so, 
to  put  it  in  the  form  of  an  understatement,  I  know 
that  she  is  simply  and  absolutely  perfect.  If  you 
could  see  her !  If  you  could  see  her  eyes,  her  deep- 
glowing,  witty,  humorous,  mischievous,  innocent 
eyes,  with  the  soul  that  burns  in  them,  the  passion 
that  sleeps.  If  you  could  see  the  black  soft  masses 
of  her  hair,  and  her  white  brow,  and  the  pale-rose  of 
her  cheeks,  and  the  red-rose  of  her  lovely  smiling 
mouth.  If  you  could  see  her  figure,  slender  and 
strong,  and  the  grace  and  pride  of  her  carriage, — 


192  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

the  carriage  of  an  imperial  princess.  If  you  could 
see  her  hands, — they  lie  in  her  lap  like  languid  lilies. 
And  her  voice, — 'tis  the  colour  of  her  mouth  and  the 
glow  of  her  eyes  made  audible.  And  if  you  could 
whisper  to  yourself  her  melodious  and  thrice  adora 
ble  name.  I  know  her  a  great  deal.  When  I  said 
that  I  only  knew  her  a  little,  I  meant  it  in  the  sense 
that  she  only  knows  me  a  little, — which  after  all, 
alas,  for  practical  purposes  comes  to  the  same 
thing." 

He  had  spoken  with  emphasis,  with  fervour,  his 
pink  face  animated  and  full  of  intention.  Maria 
Dolores  kept  her  soft-glowing  eyes  resolutely  away 
from  him,  but  I  think  the  soul  that  burned  in  them 
(if  not  the  passion  that  slept)  was  vaguely  troubled. 
Qui  parle  d'amour — how  does  the  French  proverb 
run?  Did  she  vaguely  feel  perhaps  that  the  seas 
they  were  sailing  were  perilous?  Anyhow,  as  John 
saw  with  a  sinking  heart,  she  was  at  the  point  of  put 
ting  an  end  to  their  present  conjunction, — she  was 
preparing  to  rise.  He  would  have  given  worlds  to 
offer  a  helping  hand,  but  (however  rich  in  worlds) 


PART  FOURTH  193 

he  was,  for  the  occasion,  poor  in  courage.  When 
love  comes  in  at  the  door,  assurance  as  like  as  not  will 
fly  out  of  the  window.  So  she  rose  unaided. 

"Let  us  hope,"  she  said,  giving  him  a  glance  in 
which  he  perceived  an  under-gleam  as  of  not  un 
friendly  mockery,  "that  she  will  soon  come  to  know 
you  better." 

"Heaven  forbid,"  cried  he,  with  a  fine  simulation 
of  alarm.  "It  is  upon  her  ignorance  of  my  true 
character  that  I  base  such  faint  hopes  as  I  possess  of 
some  day  winning  her  esteem." 

Maria  Dolores  laughed,  nodded,  and  lightly 
moved  away. 

"My  son,"  said  John  to  himself,  "you  steered 
precious  close  to  the  wind.  You  had  best  be  care 
ful." 

And  then  he  was  conscious  of  a  sudden  change  in 
things.  The  garden  smiled  about  him,  the  valley 
below  laughed  in  the  breeze,  the  blackcaps  sang,  the 
many  windows  of  the  castle  glistened  in  the  sun ;  but 
their  beauty  and  their  pleasantness  had  departed, 
had  retired  with  her  into  the  long,  low,  white-walled, 


194  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

red-roofed  pavilion.  He  was  conscious  of  a  sudden 
change  in  things,  and  of  a  sudden  acute  and  bitter 
depression  within  himself. 

"These  are  great  larks,"  he  said;  "great  larks 
while  they  last, — but  what's  the  good  of  them  in  the 
end?  What  do  they  lead  to?  What's  the  good  of 
coquetting  with  blisses  that  can't  be  yours?"  And 
he  breathed  a  prodigious  sigh.  "When  shall  I  see 
her  again?"  he  asked,  and  thereupon  was  seized  by 
his  old  terror — his  terror  of  yesterday,  though  it 
seemed  to  him  a  terror  he  had  known  all  his  life — 
lest  he  should  never  see  her  again.  "She's  only  a 
visitor.  What's  to  prevent  her  leaving  this  very 
night?" 

The  imagination  was  intolerable.  He  entered  the 
castle  court,  and  climbed  the  staircase  of  honour, 
and  rambled  through  the  long  suites  of  great  empty 
rooms,  empty  of  everything  save  the  memory  of  the 
past  and  the  portraits  of  the  dead,  there,  if  he  might, 
for  a  time  at  least,  to  lose  himself  and  to  forget  her. 


PART    FOURTH  195 


"Who  is  the  young  man  you  have  been  talking  with 
so  long?"  asked  Frau  Brandt,  as  Maria  Dolores 
came  into  her  sitting-room,  a  vast,  square,  bare 
room,  with  a  marble  floor  and  a  painted  ceiling,  with 
Venetian  blinds  to  shelter  it  from  the  sun,  and  a 
bitter-sweet  smell,  as  of  rosemary  or  I  know  not  what 
other  aromatic  herb,  upon  its  cool  air. 

"Oh?  You  saw  us?"  said  Maria  Dolores,  an 
swering  question  with  question. 

"Him  I  have  seen  many  times — every  day  for  a 
week  at  least,"  said  Frau  Brandt.  "But  I  never  be 
fore  saw  you  talking  with  him.  Who  is  he?"  She 
was  a  small,  brown,  square-built,  black-haired, 
homely-featured  old  woman,  in  a  big,  round 
starched  white  cap  and  a  flowing  black  silk  gown. 
She  sat  in  an  uncushioned  oaken  arm-chair  by  the 
window,  with  some  white  knitting  in  her  bony,  blunt- 
fingered  brown  hands,  and  tortoise-shell-rimmed 


196  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

spectacles  on  her  nose.  But  the  spectacles  couldn't 
hide  the  goodness  or  the  soundness  or  the  sweetness 
that  looked  forth  from  her  motherly  old  honest 
brown  eyes. 

"He  is  a  young  man  who  lives  en  pension  at  the 
presbytery,"  said  Maria  Dolores,  "a  young  Eng 
lishman." 

"So  ?"  said  Frau  Brandt.    "What  is  his  name  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Maria  Dolores,  with  disen 
gagement  real  or  feigned.  "His  Christian  name,  I 
believe,  is  John." 

"But  his  family  name?"  persisted  Frau  Brandt. 

"It  is  probably  Brown,  Jones,  or  Robinson,"  said 
Maria  Dolores.  "Or  it  may  even  be  Black,  Smith, 
or  Johnson.  Most  Englishmen  are  named  one  or  the 
other." 

"So?"  said  Frau  Brandt.  "But  is  it  prudent  or 
seemly  for  you  to  talk  familiarly  with  a  young  man 
whose  name  is  unknown  to  you  ?" 

"Why  not?"  asked  Maria  Dolores,  raising  her 
eyebrows,  as  if  surprised.  "He  seems  a  very  harm 
less  young  man.  I  don't  think  he  will  eat  me.  And 


PART    FOURTH  19? 

he  is  English, — and  I  like  English  people.  And  he 
is  intelligent, — his  conversation  amuses  me.  And  he 
has  nice  easy,  impetuous  manners, — so  different 
from  the  formality  and  restraint  of  Austrian  young 
men.  What  can  his  name  matter?" 

"But" — Frau  Brandt  looked  up  impressively 
over  her  spectacles,  and  her  voice  was  charged  with 
gravity,  for  she  was  about  to  ask  a  question  to  the 
Teutonic  mind  of  quite  supreme  importance — "but 
is  he  noble?"  It  was  to  her  what — nay,  more  than 
what — the  question,  "Is  he  respectable?"  would  have 
been  to  an  Englishwoman. 

Maria  Dolores  laughed. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said.  "At  least  I  have  every  reason 
to  believe  not,  and  I  devoutly  hope  not.  He  belongs 
I  expect  to  what  they  call  in  England  the  middle 
class.  He  has  an  uncle  who  is  a  farmer." 

Frau  Brandt's  good  old  brown  eyes  showed  her 
profoundly  shocked,  and  expressed  profound  repre 
hension. 

"But  you  were  speaking  with  him  familiarly — 
you  were  speaking  with  him  almost  as  an  equal,"  she 


198  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

pronounced  in  bated  accents,  in  accents  of  conster 
nation. 

Again  Maria  Dolores  laughed. 

"True,"  she  assented  gaily,  "and  that  is  exactly 
what  I  couldn't  do  if  he  were  noble.  Then  I  should 
have  to  remember  our  respective  positions.  But 
where  the  difference  of  rank  is  so  great,  one 
can  talk  familiarly  without  fear.  Ca  n'engage  a 
rien." 

Frau  Brandt  nodded  her  head,  for  full  half  a  min 
ute,  with  many  meanings ;  she  nodded  it  now  up  and 
down,  and  now  shook  it  sidewise. 

"I  do  not  like  it,"  she  said,  at  last.  "Your 
brother  would  not  like  it.  It  is  not  becoming.  Well, 
thanks  be  to  Heaven,  he  is  only  English." 

"Oh,  of  course,"  agreed  Maria  Dolores,  "if  he 
were  Austrian,  it  would  be  entirely  different." 

"But  is  it  fair  to  the  young  man  himself?"  pur 
sued  Frau  Brandt.  "Is  he  aware  that  he  is  hoba- 
nobbing  with  a  Serene  Highness?  You  treat  him 
as  an  equal.  What  if  he  should  fall  in  love  with 
you?" 


PART    FOURTH  199 

"What  indeed!  But  he  won't,"  laughed  Maria 
Dolores,  possibly  with  a  mental  reservation. 

"Who  can  tell?"  said'Frau  Brandt.  "His  eyes, 
when  he  looked  at  you,  had  an  expression.  But 
there  is  a  greater  danger  still.  You  are  both  at  the 
dangerous  age.  He  is  good-looking.  What  if  your 
heart  should  become  interested  in  him  ?" 

"Oh,  in  that  case,"  answered  Maria  Dolores, 
lightly,  her  chin  a  little  in  the  air,  "I  should  marry 
him — if  he  asked  me." 

"What !"  cried  Frau  Brandt,  half  rising  from  her 
chair. 

"Yes,"  said  Maria  Dolores,  cheerfully  unexcited. 
"He  is  a  man  of  breeding  and  education,  even  if  he 
isn't  noble.  If  I  loved  a  man,  I  shouldn't  give  one 
thought  to  his  birth.  I'm  tired  of  all  our  Austrian 
insistence  upon  birth,  upon  birth  and  quarterings 
and  precedencies.  If  ever  I  love,  I  shall  love  some 
one  just  for  what  he  is,  for  what  God  has  made  him, 
and  for  nothing  else.  It  wouldn't  matter  if  his 
father  were  a  cobbler — if  I  loved  him,  I'd  marry 


200  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

him."    Her  chin  higher  in  the  air,  she  had  every 

appearance  of  meaning  what  she  said. 

Frau  Brandt  had  sunken  back  in  her  chair,  and 
was  nodding  her  white-capped  old  head  again. 

"Oh,  my  child,  my  child,"  she  grieved.  "Will 
you  never  rid  your  fancy  of  these  high-flown,  un 
practical,  romantic  whimsies?  It  all  comes  of  read 
ing  poetry."  She  herself,  good  woman,  read  little 
but  her  prayers. 

"Oh,  my  dear  true  Heart,"  responded  Maria  Do 
lores,  laughing.  She  crossed  the  room,  and  placed 
her  hand  affectionately  upon  Frau  Brandt's  shoul 
der.  "My  dearest  old  Nurse!  Do  not  distress 
yourself.  This  is  not  yet  a  question  of  actu 
ality.  Let  us  not  cry  before  we  are  hurt."  And 
she  stooped,  and  kissed  her  nurse's  brown  old 
brow. 

But  afterward  she  stood  looking  with  great  pen- 
siveness  out  of  the  window,  stood  so  for  a  long  while ; 
and  I  fancy  there  was  a  softer  glow  than  ever  in  her 
soft-glowing  eyes,  and  perhaps  a  livelier  rose  in  her 
pale-rose  cheeks. 


PART    FOURTH  201 

"What  are  you  thinking  so  deeply  about  ?"  Frau 
Brandt  asked  by-and-by. 

Maria  Dolores  woke  with  a  little  start,  and  turned 
from  the  window,  and  laughed  again. 

"Oh,  thinking  about  my  cobbler's  son,  of  course," 
she  said. 

VI 

Annunziata,  seeking  him  to  announce  that  supper 
was  ready,  found  John,  seated  in  his  chamber  of 
dead  ladies,  his  arms  folded,  his  legs  crossed,  his 
eyes  fixed,  a  frown  upon  his  prone  brow ;  his  spirit 
apparently  rapt  in  a  brown  study. 

"Eh !    Prospero  !"  she  called. 

Whereat  he  came  to  himself,  glanced  up,  glanced 
round,  changed  his  posture,  and  finally,  rising, 
blew  his  preoccupations  from  him  in  a  deep,  deep 
sigh. 

"Oh,  what  a  sigh !"  marvelled  Annunziata,  mak 
ing  big  eyes.  "What  are  you  sighing  so  hard 
for?" 

John  looked  at  her,  and  smiled. 


202  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"Sighing  for  my  miller's  daughter,  my  dear,"  he 
said. 

And,  as  he  followed  her  to  the  presbytery,  he  sang 
softly  to  himself— 

"It  is  the  miller's  daughter, 

And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  dear, 
That  I  would  be  the  jewel 
That  trembles  in  her  ear." 


PART  FIFTH 


It  was  Sunday.  It  was  early  morning.  It  was  rain 
ing, — a  fine  quiet,  determined  rain,  that  blurred 
the  lower  reaches  of  the  valley,  and  entirely  hid  the 
mountain-tops,  so  that  one  found  it  hard  not  to 
doubt  a  little  whether  they  were  still  there.  Near  at 
hand  the  garden  was  as  if  a  thin  web  of  silver  had 
been  cast  over  it,  pale  and  dim,  where  wet  surfaces 
reflected  the  diffused  daylight.  And  just  across  the 
Rampio,  on  the  olive-clad  hillside  that  rose  abruptly 
from  its  brink,  rather  an  interesting  process  was  tak 
ing  place, — the  fabrication  of  clouds,  no  less.  The 
hillside,  with  its  rondure  of  blue-grey  foliage,  would 
lie  for  a  moment  quite  bare  and  clear ;  then,  at  some 
high  point,  a  mist  would  begin  to  form,  would  ap 
pear  indeed  to  issue  from  the  earth,  as  smoke  from  a 
203 


204  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

subterranean  fire,  white  smoke  with  pearly  shadows ; 
would  thicken  and  spread  out ;  would  draw  together 
and  rise  in  an  irregular  spiral  column,  curling, 
swaying,  poising,  as  if  uncertain  what  to  do  next; 
and  at  last,  all  at  once  making  up  its  mind  (how  like 
a  younker  or  a  prodigal),  would  go  sailing  away, 
straggling  away,  amorphous,  on  a  puff  of  wind, 
leaving  the  hillside  clear  again ; — till,  presently,  the 
process  would  recommence  da  capo. 

John  and  Annunziata,  seated  together  on  a  mar 
ble  bench  in  the  shelter  of  the  great  cloister,  with  its 
faded  frescoes,  at  the  north-eastern  extremity  of  the 
castle  buildings,  had  been  watching  this  element- 
play  for  some  minutes  in  silence.  But  by-and-by 
Annunziata  spoke. 

"What  makes  the  cloud  come  out  of  the  hill  like 
that?"  she  asked,  her  eyes  anxiously  questioning 
his.  "I  have  seen  it  happen  many  times,  but  I  could 
never  understand  it.  There  cannot  be  a  fire  under 
neath?" 

"If  you  can't  understand  it,  Mistress  Wisdom," 
responded  John,  smiling  on  her,  "you  surely  mustn't 


PART     FIFTH  205 

expect  a  featherpate  like  me  to.  Between  ourselves, 
I  don't  believe  anyone  can  really  understand  it, 
though  there's  a  variety  of  the  human  species  called 
scientists  who  might  pretend  they  could.  It's  all  a 
part  of  that  great  scheme  of  miracles  by  which 
God's  world  goes  on,  Nature,  which  nobody  can 
really  understand  in  the  very  least.  All  that  the 
chaps  called  scientists  can  really  do  is  to  observe  and 
more  or  less  give  names  to  the  miracles.  They  can't 
explain  'em." 

"It  is  great  pleasure  to  watch  such  things,"  said 
Annunziata.  "It  is  a  great  blessing  to  be  allowed  to 
see  a  miracle  performed  with  your  own  eyes." 

"So  it  is,"  agreed  John.  "And  if  you  keep  your 
eyes  well  open,  there's  not  a  minute  of  the  livelong 
day  when  you  mayn't  see  one." 

"It  is  very  strange,"  said  Annunziata,  "but  when 
the  sun  shines,  then  I  love  the  sunny  weather,  and 
am  glad  that  it  does  not  rain.  Yet  when  it  does  rain, 
then  I  find  that  I  love  the  rain  too,  that  I  love  it  just 
as  much  as  the  sun, — it  is  so  fresh,  it  smells  so  good, 
the  rain-drops  are  so  pretty,  and  they  make  such  a 


206  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

pretty  sound  where  they  fall,  and  the  grey  light  is 

so  pleasant." 

"Our  loves,"  said  John,  "are  always  very  strange. 
Love  is  the  rummest  miracle  of  them  all.  It  is  even 
more  difficult  to  account  for  than  the  formation  of 
clouds  on  the  hillside." 

"We  love  the  things  that  give  us  pleasure,"  said 
Annunziata. 

"And  the  people,  sometimes,  who  give  us  pain," 
said  John. 

"We  love  the  people,  first  of  all,  who  are  re 
lated  to  us,"  said  Annunziata,  "and  then  the  peo 
ple  we  see  a  great  deal  of — just  as  I  love,  first 
of  all,  my  uncle,  and  then  you  and  Marcella  the 
cook." 

"Who  brings  in  the  inevitable  veal,"  said  John. 
"Thank  you,  Honeymouth."  He  bowed  and 
laughed,  while  Annunziata's  grave  eyes  wondered 
what  he  was  laughing  at.  "But  it  isn't  everyone," 
he  pointed  out,  "who  has  your  solid  and  well-bal 
anced  little  head-piece.  It  isn't  everyone  who  keeps 
his  loves  so  neatly  docketed,  or  so  sanely  submitted 


PART  FIFTH  207 

to  the  sway  of  reason.  Some  of  us  love  first  of  all 
people  who  aren't  related  to  us  in  the  remotest  de 
gree,  and  people  we've  seen  hardly  anything  of  and 
know  next  to  nothing  about." 

Annunziata  deprecatingly  shook  her  head. 

"It  is  foolish  to  love  people  we  know  nothing 
about,"  she  declared,  in  her  deep  voice,  and  looked  a 
very  sage  delivering  judgment. 

"True  enough,"  said  John.  "But  what  would 
you  have?  Some  of  us  are  born  to  folly,  as  the 
sparks  fly  upward.  You  see,  there's  a  mighty  dif 
ference  between  love  and  love.  There's  the  love 
which  is  affection,  there's  the  love  which  is  cupboard- 
love,  and  there's  the  love  which  is  just  simply  love- 
love  and  nothing  else.  The  first,  as  you  have  truly 
observed,  has  its  roots  in  consanguinity  or  associa 
tion,  the  second  in  a  lively  hope  of  future  comfits, 
and  either  is  sufficiently  explicable.  But  the  third 
has  its  roots  apparently  in  mere  haphazard  and 
causelessness,  and  isn't  explicable  by  any  means 
whatsoever,  and  yet  is  far  and  away  the  violentest  of 
the  three.  It  falls  as  the  lightning  from  the  clouds, 


208  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

and  strikes  whom  it  will.  Though  I  mix  my  meta 
phors  fearlessly,  like  a  man,  I  trust,  with  your  fem 
inine  intuition,  you  follow  me?" 

"No,"  said  Annunziata,  without  compunction, 
her  eyes  on  the  distance.  "I  don't  know  what  you 
mean." 

"Thank  Heaven  you  don't,  pray  Heaven  you 
never  may,"  said  her  inconsequential  friend.  "For 
love-love  is  a  plague.  You  meet  a  person,  for  exam 
ple,  in  a  garden.  You  know  nothing  whatever 
about  her,  not  even  her  name,  though  you  fear  it 
may  be  Schmidt.  You  meet  her  not  more  than  half 
a  dozen  times  all  told.  And  suddenly  one  morning 
you  wake  up  to  discover  that  she  has  become  to  you 
the  person  of  first  importance  in  the  world.  She  is 
practically  a  total  stranger  to  you,  she's  of  a  differ 
ent  nationality,  a  different  rank,  yet  she's  infinitely 
the  most  precious  and  important  person  in  the  world. 
When  you're  absent  from  her  you  can  do  nothing 
but  think  of  her,  gloating  with  throes  of  aromatic 
pain  over  the  memory  of  your  last  meeting  with  her, 
longing  with  soul-hunger  for  your  next.  The  mer- 


PART  FIFTH  209 

est  flutter  of  her  gown,  modulation  of  her  voice, 
glance  of  her  eye,  will  throw  your  heart  into  a  palpi 
tation.  You  look  in  the  direction  of  the  house  that 
she  inhabits,  and  you  feel  the  emotions  of  a  Peri 
looking  at  the  gate  of  Eden.  And  it  gives  you  the 
strangest  sort  of  strange  joy  to  talk  about  her, 
though  of  course  you  take  pains  to  talk  about  her  in 
veiled  terms,  obliquely,  so  that  your  listener  shan't 
guess  whom  you  are  talking  about.  In  short,  she  is 
the  be-all  and  the  end-all  of  your  existence, — and 
you  don't  even  know  her  name,  though  you  fear  it 
may  be  Schmidt." 

He  lolled  back  at  ease  on  the  marble  bench,  and 
twirled  his  yellow-red  moustaches,  fancy  free. 

"But  you  do  know  her  name,"  said  Annunziata, 
simply,  in  her  deepest  voice,  holding  him  with  a 
gaze,  lucent  and  serious,  that  seemed  almost  re 
proachful.  "Her  name  is  Maria  Dolores." 

The  thing  was  tolerably  unexpected.  What  won 
der  if  it  put  my  hero  out  of  countenance  ?  His  atti 
tude  grew  rigid,  his  pink  skin  three  shades  pinker; 
his  blue  eyes  stared  at  her,  startled.  So  for  a  sec- 


210  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

ond ;  then  he  relaxed,  and  laughed,  laughed  long  and 
heartily,  perhaps  a  little  despitefully  too,  at  his  own 
expense.  .  .  .  But  he  must  try,  if  he  might,  to 
repair  the  mischief. 

"My  poor  child,"  he  said,  resting  his  hand  on  her 
curls,  and  gently  smoothing  them.  "You  are  what 
the  French  call  an  enfant  terrible.  You  are  what 
the  English  call  a  deuced  sharp  little  pickle.  And  I 
must  try,  if  I  can,  without  actually  lying,  to  per 
suade  you  that  you  are  utterly  mistaken,  utterly  and 
absolutely  mistaken," — he  raised  his  voice,  for 
greater  convincingness, — "and  that  her  name  is 
nothing  distantly  resembling  the  name  that  you  have 
spoken,  and  that  in  fact  her  name  is  Mrs.  Harris, 
and  that  in  fine  there  is  no  such  person,  and  that  I 
was  merely  talking  hypothetically,  in  abstractions ; 
I  must  draw  a  herring  across  the  trail,  I  must  raise 
a  dust,  and  throw  a  lot  of  it  into  your  amazingly 
clear-sighted  little  eyes.  Now,  is  it  definitely  im 
pressed  upon  you  that  her  name  is  not — the  thrice- 
adorable  name  you  mentioned  ?" 

"I  thought  it  was,"  answered  Annunziata.    "I  am 


PART  FIFTH  211 

sorry  it  is  not."  And  then  she  dismissed  the  sub 
ject.  "See,  it  is  raining  harder.  See  how  the  rain 
comes  down  in  long  strings  of  beads, — see  how  it  is 
like  a  network  of  long  strings  of  glass  beads  falling 
through  the  air.  When  the  rain  comes  down  like 
that,  it  means  that  after  the  rain  stops  it  will  be  very 
hot.  To-morrow  it  will  be  very  hot." 

The  bell  in  the  clock-tower  tolled  out  seven  sol 
emn  strokes ;  then  the  lighter-toned  and  nimbler- 
tongued  bell  of  the  church  began  to  ring. 

"Come,"  peremptorily  said  Annunziata,  jumping 
up.  "Mass." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  took  John's,  and,  like  a 
mother,  led  the  meek  and  unquestioning  young  man 
to  his  duties. 


212  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 


II 


Of  course  there  are  no  such  heretical  inventions  as 
pews  in  the  parish  church  of  Sant'  Alessina.  You 
sit  upon  orthodox  rush-bottomed  chairs,  you  kneel 
upon  orthodox  bare  stones.  But  at  the  epistle  side 
of  the  altar,  at  an  elevation  of  perhaps  a  yard  from 
the  pavement,  there  is  a  recess  in  the  wall,  enclosed 
by  a  marble  balustrade,  and  hung  with  faded  red 
curtains,  which  looks,  I'm  afraid,  a  good  deal  like  a 
private  box  at  a  theatre,  and  is  in  fact  the  tribune 
reserved  for  the  masters  of  the  castle.  (In  former 
days  those  masters  were  the  Sforzas.  So,  from  this 
tribune,  the  members  of  that  race  of  iron  and  blood, 
of  fierceness  and  of  guile,  have  assisted  at  the  mys 
tical  sacrifice  of  the  Lamb  of  God!)  Heretofore, 
during  John's  residence  at  the  presbytery,  the  trib 
une  had  stood  vacant.  To-day  it  was  occupied  by 
Maria  Dolores  and  Frau  Brandt.  Maria  Dolores, 
instead  of  wearing  a  hat,  had  adopted  the  ancient 


PART  FIFTH  213 

and  beautiful  use  of  draping  a  long  veil  of  black 
lace  over  her  dark  hair. 

John  knelt  in  the  middle  of  the  church,  in  the 
thick  of  the  ragged,  dirty,  unsavoury  villagers. 
When  Mass  was  over,  he  returned  to  the  cloisters, 
and  there,  face  to  face,  he  met  the  lady  of  his 
dreams. 

She  graciously  inclined  her  head. 

"Good  morning,"  she  said,  smiling,  in  a  voice  that 
seemed  to  him  full  of  morning  freshness. 

"Good  morning,"  he  responded,  wondering 
whether  she  could  hear  the  tremor  of  his  heart. 
"Though,  in  honest  truth,  it's  rather  a  bad  morning, 
isn't  it?"  he  submitted,  posing  his  head  at  an  angle, 
dubious  and  reflective,  that  seemed  to  raise  the  ques 
tion  to  a  level  of  philosophic  import. 

"Oh,  with  these  cloisters,  one  shouldn't  complain," 
said  she,  glancing  indicatively  round.  "One  can 
still  be  out  of  doors,  and  yet  not  get  the  wetting  one 
deserves.  And  the  view  is  so  fine,  and  these  faded 
old  frescoes  are  so  droll." 

"Yes,"  said  he,  his  wits,  for  the  instant,  in  a  state 


214  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

of  suspended  animation.    "The  view  is  fine,  the  fres 
coes  are  droll." 

She  looked  as  if  she  were  thinking  about  some 
thing. 

"Don't  you  find  it,"  she  asked,  after  a  moment, 
with  the  slightest  bepuzzled  drawing  together  of  her 
eyebrows,  "a  trifle  unpleasant,  hearing  Mass  from 
where  you  do?" 

John  looked  blank. 

"Unpleasant?    No.    Why  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  should  think  it  might  be  disagreeable  to  be 
hemmed  in  and  elbowed  by  those  extraordinarily 
ragged  and  dirty  people,"  she  explained.  "It's  a 
pity  they  shouldn't  clean  themselves  up  a  little  be 
fore  coming  to  church." 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  assented,  "a  little  cleaning  up 
wouldn't  hurt  them;  that's  very  certain.  But,"  he 
set  forth,  in  extenuation,  "it's  not  the  custom  of  the 
country,  and  the  fact  that  it  isn't  has  its  good  sig 
nificance,  as  well  as  its  bad.  It's  one  of  the  many 
signs  of  how  genuinely  democratic  and  popular  the 
Church  is  in  Italy, — as  it  ought  to  be  everywhere. 


PART  FIFTH  215 

It  is  here  essentially  the  Church  of  the  people,  the 
Church  of  the  poor.  It  is  the  one  place  where 
the  poorest  man,  in  all  his  rags,  and  with  the  soil 
of  his  work  upon  him,  feels  perfectly  at  ease,  per 
fectly  at  home,  perfectly  equal  to  the  richest.  It 
is  the  one  place  where  a  reeking  market-woman, 
with  her  basket  on  her  arm,  will  feel  at  liberty 
to  take  her  place  beside  the  great  lady,  in  her  furs 
and  velvets,  and  even  to  ask  her,  with  a  nudge,  to 
move  up  and  make  room.  That  is  as  it  should  be, 
isn't  it?" 

"No  doubt,  no  doubt,"  agreed  Maria  Dolores, 
beginning  to  pace  backward  and  forward  over  the 
lichen-stained  marble  pavement  (stained  as  by  the 
hand  of  an  artist,  in  wavy  veins  of  yellow  or  pale- 
green,  with  here  and  there  little  rosettes  of  scarlet), 
while  John  kept  beside  her.  "All  the  same,  I  should 
not  like  to  kneel  quite  in  the  very  heart  of  the  crowd, 
as  you  do." 

"You  are  a  delicate  and  sensitive  woman,"  he  re 
minded  her.  "I  am  a  man,  and  a  moderately  tough 
one.  However,  I  must  admit  that  until  rather  re- 


216  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

cently  I  had  exactly  your  feeling.  But  I  got  a 
lesson."  He  broke  off,  and  gave  a  vague  little 
laugh,  vaguely  rueful,  as  at  a  not  altogether  pleas 
ant  reminiscence. 

"What  was  the  lesson  ?"  she  asked. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "if  you  care  to  know,  it  was  this. 
The  first  time  that  I  attended  Mass  here,  desiring  to 
avoid  the  people,  I  sought  out  a  far  corner  of  the 
church,  behind  a  pillar,  where  there  was  no  one.  But 
as  soon  as  I  had  got  myself  well  established  there,  up 
hobbled  a  deformed  and  lame  old  man,  and  plumped 
himself  down  beside  me,  so  close  that  our  coat-sleeves 
touched.  I  think  he  was  the  most  repulsive-looking 
old  man  I  have  ever  seen ;  he  was  certainly  the  dirti 
est,  the  grimiest,  and  his  rags  were  extravagantly 
foul.  I  will  spare  you  a  more  circumstantial  por 
trait.  And  all  through  Mass  I  was  sick  with  disgust 
and  sore  with  resentment.  Why  should  he  come  and 
rub  his  coat-sleeve  against  mine,  when  there  was 
room  in  plenty  for  him  elsewhere  ?  The  next  time  I 
went  to  church,  I  chose  a  different  corner,  as  remote 
as  might  be  from  my  former  one;  but  again,  no 


PART  FIFTH  217 

sooner  was  I  well  installed,  than,  lo  and  behold,  the 
same  unspeakable  old  man  limped  up  and  knelt  with 
me,  cheek  by  jowl.  And  so,  if  you  can  believe  it,  the 
next  time,  and  so  the  next.  It  didn't  matter  where  I 
placed  myself,  there  he  was  sure  to  place  himself  too. 
You  will  suppose  that,  apart  from  my  annoyance,  I 
was  vastly  perplexed.  Why  should  he  pursue  me 
so?  Who  was  he?  What  was  he  after?  And  for 
enlightenment  I  addressed  myself  to  Annunziata. 
'Who  is  the  hideous  old  man  who  always  kneels  be 
side  me?'  I  asked  her.  She  had  not  noticed  anyone 
kneeling  beside  me,  she  said ;  she  had  noticed,  on  the 
contrary,  that  I  always  knelt  alone,  at  a  distance. 
'Well,'  said  I,  'keep  your  eyes  open  to-day,  and  you 
will  see  the  man  I  mean.'  So  we  went  to  Mass,  and 
sure  enough,  no  sooner  had  I  found  a  secluded  place, 
than  my  old  friend  appeared  and  joined  me,  dirtier 
and  more  hideous  and  if  possible  more  deformed 
than  ever." 

"Yes?"  said  Maria  Dolores,  with  interest,  as  he 
paused. 

"When  we  came  out  of  church,  I  asked  Annun- 


218  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

ziata  who  he  was,"  continued  John.  "And  she  said 
that  though  she  had  kept  her  eyes  open,  according 
to  my  injunction,  she  had  failed  to  see  anyone  kneel 
ing  beside  me — that,  on  the  contrary,  she  had  seen 
me,"  he  concluded,  with  an  insouciance  that  was 
plainly  assumed  for  its  dramatic  value,  "kneeling 
alone,  at  a  distance  from  everyone." 

Maria  Dolores'  face  was  white.  She  frowned  her 
mystification. 

"What!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  half- frightened 
voice. 

"That  is  precisely  the  ejaculation  that  fell  from 
my  own  lips  at  the  time,"  said  John.  "Then  I  gave 
her  a  minute  description  of  the  old  man,  in  all  his 
ugliness.  And  then  she  administered  my  lesson  to 
me." 

"Yes?  What  was  it?"  questioned  Maria  Dolores, 
her  interest  acute. 

"Speaking  in  that  oracular  vein  of  hers,  her  eyes 
very  big,  her  face  very  grave,  she  assured  me  that 
my  horrible  old  man  had  no  objective  existence.  She 
informed  me  cheerfully  and  calmly  that  he  was  an 


PART     FIFTH  219 

image  of  my  own  soul,  as  it  appeared,  corrupted  and 
aged  and  deformed  by  the  sins  of  a  lifetime,  to  God 
and  to  the  Saints.  And  she  added  that  he  was  sent 
to  punish  me  for  my  pride  in  thinking  myself  differ 
ent  to  the  common  people,  and  in  seeking  to  hold  my 
self  aloof.  Since  then,"  John  brought  his  anecdote 
to  a  term,  "I  have  always  knelt  in  the  body  of  the 
church,  and  I  have  never  again  seen  my  Doppel- 
ganger." 

Maria  Dolores  was  silent  for  a  little.  They  had 
come  to  the  southern  end  of  the  cloisters,  where  the 
buttresses  of  the  castle-walls,  all  shaggy-mantled  in 
a  green  over-growth  of  creepers,  fall  precipitously 
away,  down  the  steep  face  of  a  natural  cliff.  They 
stopped  here,  and  stood  looking  off.  The  rain  had 
held  up,  though  the  valley  was  still  misty  with  its 
vapours.  Whiffs  of  velvety  air,  warm  and  sweet, 
blew  in  their  faces,  lightly  stirred  the  dark  hair 
about  her  brow,  and,  catching  the  flowery  edge  of 
her  black  lace  mantilla,  set  it  fluttering. 

"That  is  a  very  good  story,"  she  said,  by-and- 
by,  with  a  sober  glance,  behind  which  there  was  the 


220  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

glint  of  laughter.  "In  view  of  it,  however,  I  sup 
pose  there  will  be  no  use  in  my  delivering  a  message 
I  came  charged  with  for  you  from  my  friend  Frau 
Brandt." 

"Oh?"  questioned  John.    "What  message?" 

"Frau  Brandt  has  received  from  the  owner  of  the 
castle  the  privilege  of  hearing  Mass  from  the  trib 
une;  and  she  wished  me  to  invite  you  in  her  name 
hereafter  to  hear  Mass  from  there  with  us.  But  I 
suppose,  in  view  of  your  'lesson,'  that  is  an  invitation 
which  you  will  decline?"  The  glint  of  laughter 
shone  brighter  in  her  eyes,  and  her  mouth  had  a  tiny 
pucker,  amiably  derisive. 

John  looked  at  her,  his  blue  eyes  bold. 

"That  is  an  invitation  which  I  am  terribly 
tempted  to  accept,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  of  unconcealed 
emotion,  of  patent  meaning;  and  beneath  his  bold 
gaze,  her  dark  eyes  dropped,  while  I  think  a  blush 
faintly  swept  her  cheeks.  "And  first  of  all,"  he 
added,  "pray  express  to  Frau  Brandt  my  grateful 
thanks  for  it — and  let  me  thank  you  also  for  your 
kindness  in  conveying  it.  If,  in  spite  of  my  tempta- 


PART  FIFTH  221 

tion,  I  don't  accept  it,  that  will  be  for  a  very  special 
reason,  and  one  quite  unconnected  with  my  'lesson.' ' 

Maria  Dolores  probably  knew  her  danger.  She 
turned,  and  began  to  walk  backward,  toward  the 
point  where  you  can  pass  from  the  cloisters,  through 
the  great  porte-cochere,  into  the  garden,  and  so  on 
to  the  pavilion  beyond  the  clock.  She  probably 
knew  her  danger ;  but  she  was  human,  but  she  was  a 
woman.  Besides,  she  had  reached  the  porte-cochere, 
and  thus  commanded  a  clear  means  of  escape.  So, 
coming  to  a  standstill  here,  "What  is  the  very  spe 
cial  reason?"  she  asked,  in  a  low  voice,  keeping  her 
eyes  from  his. 

His  were  bolder  than  ever.  Infinite  admiration  of 
her  burned  in  them,  infinite  delight  in  her,  desire  for 
her;  at  the  same  time  a  kind  of  angry  hopelessness 
darkened  them,  and  a  kind  of  bitter  amusement,  as 
of  one  amused  at  his  own  sad  plight. 

"I  wish  I  were  rich,"  he  exclaimed,  irritably,  be 
tween  his  teeth. 

"Oh  ?  Is  that  the  very  special  reason  ?"  asked  she, 
with  two  notes  of  laughter. 


222  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"No,"  said  he,  "but  it  has  a  connection  with  it. 
You  see,  I'm  in  love." 

"Yes,"  said  she.  "I  remember  your  telling  me 
so." 

"Well,  I  wish  I  were  rich,"  said  he.  "Then  I 
might  pluck  up  courage  to  ask  the  woman  I  love  to 
be  my  wife." 

"Money  isn't  everything  here  below,"  said  she. 
"I  have  your  own  word  for  that." 

"What  else  counts,"  said  he,  "when  you  wish  to 
ask  a  woman  to  marry  you  ?" 

"Oh,  many  things,"  said  she.  "Difference  of 
rank,  for  example." 

"That  wouldn't  count  with  me,"  said  the  demo 
cratic  fellow,  handsomely.  "I  shouldn't  give  two 
thoughts  to  differences  of  rank." 

Maria  Dolores  smiled — at  her  secret  reflections,  I 
suppose. 

"But  poverty  puts  it  out  of  all  question,"  John 
moodily  went  on.  "I  couldn't  ask  a  woman  to  come 
and  share  with  me  an  income  of  sixpence  a  week. 
Especially  as  I  have  grounds  for  believing  that  she's 


PART  FIFTH  223 

in  rather  affluent  circumstances  herself.  Oh,  I  wish 
I  were  rich!"  He  repeated  this  aspiration  in  a 
groan. 

"Poor,  poor  young  man,"  she  commiserated  him, 
while  her  eyes,  which  she  held  perseveringly  averted, 
were  soft  with  sympathy  and  gay  with  mirth. 
"When  do  you  begin  your  gardening?" 

"Oh,  don't  mock  me,"  he  cried,  with  an  imploring 
gesture.  "You  know,  joking  apart,  that  it's  child's 
play  for  a  man  of  my  age,  with  no  profession  and  no 
special  talent,  to  fancy  he  can  turn  to,  and  earn 
money.  I  might,  if  I  made  supernatural  exertions, 
and  if  Fortune  went  out  of  her  way  to  favour  me, 
add  a  maximum  of  another  sixpence  to  my  weekly 
budget.  No,  there's  never  a  hope  for  me  on  sea  or 
land.  I  must  e'en  bear  it,  though  I  cannot  grin 
withal." 

"Ah,  well,"  said  Maria  Dolores,  to  comfort  him, 
"these  attacks,  I  have  read,  are  often  as  short  as  they 
are  sharp.  Let  us  trust  you'll  soon  rally  from  this 
one.  How  long  have  they  generally  lasted  in  the 
past?" 


224  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

John's  face  grew  dark  with  upbraiding;  the 
sea-blue  of  his  eyes,  the  gold  of  his  hair  and 
beard,  the  pink  of  his  complexion  visibly  grew 
dark. 

"You  are  so  needlessly  unkind,"  he  said,  "that 
you  don't  deserve  to  hear  the  true  answer  to  your 
question." 

She  studied  the  half-obliterated  fresco  on  the  wall 
beside  her. 

"All  the  same,"  said  he,  "you  shall  hear  it.  If 
falling  in  love  were  my  habit,  no  doubt  I  shouldn't 
take  it  so  hard.  But  the  simple  truth,  though  I  am 
thirty  years  old,  is  that  I  have  never  before  felt  so 
much  as  a  heart-flutter  for  any  woman.  And,  since 
you  cite  your  reading,  /  have  read  that  a  fire  which 
may  merely  singe  the  surface  of  green  wood,  will  en 
tirely  consume  the  dry." 

She  continued  to  study  the  ancient  painting. 
Her  fingers  were  playing  with  the  ends  of  her  lace 
veil. 

"Besides,"  he  went  on,  "if  I  had  been  in  love  a 
dozen  times,  it  wouldn't  signify.  For  I  should  have 


PART  FIFTH  225 

been  in  love  with  ordinary  usual  human  women. 
They're  the  only  sort  I  ever  met — till  I  met  her. 
She's  of  a  totally  different  order — as  distinct  from 
them  as  ...  What  shall  I  say?  Oh,  as  unlike 
them  as  starfire  is  unlike  dull  clay.  Starfire — star- 
fire — the  wonderful,  high,  white-burning  starfire  of 
her  spirit,  that's  the  thing  that  strikes  you  most  in 
her.  It  shines  through  her.  It  shines  in  her  eyes, 
it  shines  in  her  hair,  her  adorable,  soft,  dark,  warm 
and  fragrant  hair;  it  shines  in  her  very  voice;  it 
shines  in  every  word  she  utters,  even  in  the  un- 
kindest." 

"Dear  me,  what  an  alarmingly  refulgent  person 
you  depict,"  laughed  Maria  Dolores,  her  eyes  still 
on  the  wall. 

"I  have  no  gift  for  word-painting,"  said  John; 
"though  I  doubt  if  the  words  are  yet  invented  that 
could  fitly  paint  my  lady.  She  grows  in  beauty  day 
by  day.  It's  a  literal  fact — every  fresh  time  I  see 
her,  she  is  perceptibly  more  lovely  than  the  last, 
more  love-compelling  in  her  loveliness.  But  'tis  a 
thing  unpaintable,  indescribable,  as  indescribable  as 


226  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

the  perfume  of  a  rose.    Oh,  why  haven't  I  five  thou 
sand  a  year?" 

"You  harp  so  persistently  upon  your  desire  for 
money,"  suggested  Maria  Dolores,  "one  might  infer 
she  was  a  commodity,  to  be  bought  and  sold.  You 
begin  at  the  wrong  end.  What  good  would  five  or 
fifty  thousand  a  year  do  you,  if  you  had  not  begun 
by  winning  her  love?" 

"No,  I  begin  at  the  proper  end,  worse  luck,"  John 
answered,  gloomily.  "For,  without  a  decent  in 
come,  I  have  no  right  even  to  try  to  win  her  love." 

"And  that  being  so,"  questioned  Maria  Dolores, 
"I  hope  you  conscientiously  avoid  her  society,  or, 
when  you  meet,  make  yourself  consistently  disagree 
able  to  her?" 

"There's  no  need  for  such  precautions,"  John  re 
plied.  "There's  no  fear  for  her.  She  regards  me  as 
a  casual  and  passing  acquaintance.  So  I  make  my 
self  no  more  disagreeable  than  I  am  by  nature.  And 
if  I  avoided  her  society  (which  I  am  far  from  do 
ing),  it  would  be  not  for  her  sake,  but  for  my  own. 
For,  though  her  society  is  to  me  a  kind  of  anticipa- 


PART  FIFTH  227 

tion  of  the  joys  of  Heaven,  yet  when  I  leave  it  and 
find  myself  alone,  the  reaction  is  dreary  in  the  super 
lative  degree;  and  the  fear,  which  perpetually 
haunts  me  (for  I  know  nothing  of  her  plans),  lest  I 
shall  never  see  her  again,  is  agonising  as  a  foretaste 
of — Heaven's  antipode.  Oh,  I  love  her!" 

He  took,  involuntarily  I  daresay,  a  step  in  her 
direction.  She  retreated  under  the  vaulting  of  the 
porte-cochere. 

"You  seem,"  she  commented,  "to  be  getting  a 
good  deal  of  emotional  experience, — which  doubtless 
some  day  you  will  find  of  value.  Why  not,  instead 
of  gardener,  embark  as  novelist  or  poet?  Here  is 
material  you  could  then  turn  to  account." 

"Ah,  there  you  are,"  he  complained,  piteously, 
"mocking  me  again.  Ah,  well,  if  you  must  have 
your  laugh,  have  it,  and  welcome.  A  man  can  learn 
to  take  the  bitter  with  the  sweet." 

"To  spare  you  that  discomfort,"  said  she,  moving 
deeper  into  the  archway,  while  John's  face  fell,  "I 
will  bid  you  good-bye.  I  am  to  report,  then,  that 
you  decline  my  friend's  invitation  with  thanks?" 


228  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"With  my  most  grateful  thanks,"  he  was  able  in 
tensively  to  rejoin,  in  spite  of  his  dismay  at  the  im 
minence  of  her  departure. 

"And  for  a  very  special  reason?"  she  harked 
back,  now,  suddenly,  for  the  first  time  since  they  had 
touched  thin  ice,  giving  him  a  glance. 

It  was  the  fleetingest  of  fleeting  glances,  it  was 
merry  and  ironic,  but  there  was  something  in  it  which 
brought  a  flame  to  his  blue  eyes. 

"For  the  very  special  reason,"  he  answered,  with 
vehemence,  "that  I  fear  the  presence  near  me  of— 
He  held  his  breath  for  a  second,  the  flame  in  his  eyes 
enveloping  her ;  then,  with  an  abrupt  change  of  tone 
and  mien,  he  ended,  " — of  Frau  Brandt  might  dis 
tract  my  attention  from  the  sermon." 

She  laughed,  and  said,  "Good-bye." 

"Good-bye,"  said  John.  And  when  she  was  half 
way  through  the  tunnel-like  passage,  "I  suppose 
you  know  you  are  leaving  me  to  a  day  as  barren  as 
the  Desert  of  Sahara  ?"  he  called  after  her. 

"Oh,  who  can  tell  what  a  day  may  bring  forth?" 
called  she,  but  without  looking  back. 


PART     FIFTH  229 

For  a  long  while  John's  faculties  were  kept  busy, 
trying  to  determine  whether  that  was  a  promise,  a 
menace,  or  a  mere  word  in  the  air. 


Ill 


"Rain  before  seven,  clear  before  eleven,"  is  as  true, 
or  as  untrue,  in  Lombardy  as  it  is  in  other  parts  of 
the  world.  The  rain  had  held  up,  and  now,  in  that 
spirited  phrase  of  Corvo's,  "here  came  my  lord  the 
Sun,"  splendidly  putting  the  clouds  to  flight,  or 
chaining  them,  transfigured,  to  his  chariot-wheels; 
clothing  the  high  snow-peaks  in  a  roseate  glory 
(that  seemed  somehow,  I  don't  know  why,  to  accent 
their  solitude  and  their  remoteness)  ;  flooding  the 
valley  with  ethereal  amber;  turning  the  swollen 
Rampio  to  a  river  of  fire :  while  the  nearer  hillsides, 
the  olive  woods,  the  trees  in  the  castle  garden,  glis 
tened  with  a  million  million  crystals,  and  the  petals 
of  the  flowers  were  crystal-tipped ;  while  the  breath 
of  the  earth  rose  in  long  streamers  of  luminous  in- 


230  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

cense,  and  the  sky  gleamed  with  every  tender,  every 
brilliant,  tint  of  blue,  from  the  blue  of  pale  forget- 
menots  to  the  blue  of  larkspur. 

John,  contemplating  this  spectacle  (and  think 
ing  of  Maria  Dolores?  revolving  still  her  cryptic 
valediction?),  all  at  once,  as  his  eye  rested  on  the 
shimmer  at  the  valley's  end  which  he  knew  to  be  the 
lake,  lifted  up  his  hand  and  clapped  his  brow.  "By 
Jove,"  he  muttered,  "if  I  wasn't  within  an  ace  of 
clean  forgetting !"  The  sight  of  the  lake  had  for 
tunately  put  him  in  mind  that  he  was  engaged 
to-day  to  lunch  with  Lady  Blanchemain  at  Rocca- 
doro. 

He  found  her  ladyship,  in  a  frock  all  concentric 
whirls  of  crisp  white  ruffles,  vigorously  wielding  a 
fan,  and  complaining  of  the  heat.  (Indeed,  as  An- 
nunziata  had  predicted,  it  had  grown  markedly 
warmer.)  "I  shall  fly  away,  if  this  continues;  I 
shall  fly  straight  to  town,  and  set  my  house  in  order 
for  the  season.  When  do  you  come?"  she  asked, 
smiling  on  him  from  her  benign  old  eyes. 

"I  don't  come,"  answered  John.    "I  rather  like 


PART     FIFTH  231 

town  in  autumn  and  winter,  when  it's  too  dark  to  see 
its  ugliness,  but  save  me  from  it  in  the  clear  light  of 
summer." 

"Fudge,"  said  Lady  Blanchemain.  "London's 
the  most  beautiful  capital  in  Europe — it's  grandi 
ose.  And  it's  the  only  place  where  there  are  any 
people." 

"Yes,"  said  John,  "but,  as  at  Nice  and  Homburg, 
too  many  of  them  are  English.  And  there's  a 
liberal  scattering,  I've  heard,  of  Jews?" 

"Oh,  Jews  are  all  right — when  they  aren't 
Jewy,"  said  Lady  Blanchemain,  with  magnanim 
ity.  "I  know  some  very  nice  ones.  I  was  rather 
hoping  you  would  be  a  feature  of  my  Sunday 
afternoons." 

"I'm  not  a  society  man,"  said  John.  "I've  no 
aptitude  myself  for  patronising  or  toadying,  and  I 
don't  particularly  enjoy  being  patronised  or  toad 
ied  to." 

"Is  that  the  beginning  and  end  of  social  life  in 
England?"  Lady  Blanchemain  inquired,  delicately 
sarcastic. 


232  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"As  I  have  seen  it,  yes,"  asseverated  John.  "The 
beginning,  end,  and  middle  of  social  life  in  Eng 
land,  as  in  Crim-Tartary,  is  worship  of  the  longest 
pigtail, — a  fetichism  sometimes  grosser,  sometimes 
subtler,  sometimes  deliberate,  often  unconscious  and 
instinctive.  Everyone  you  meet  is  aware  that  his 
pigtail  is  either  longer  or  shorter  than  yours,  and 
accordingly,  more  or  less  subtly,  grossly,  uncon 
sciously  or  deliberately,  swaggers  or  bends  the  knee. 
It's  a  state  of  things  I've  tried  in  vain  to  find  divert 
ing." 

"It's  a  state  of  things  you'll  find  prevailing 
pretty  well  in  all  places  where  the  human  species 
breeds,"  said  Lady  Blanchemain.  "The  only  differ 
ence  will  be  a  question  of  what  constitutes  the  pig 
tail.  And  are  you,  then,  remaining  at  Sant'  Ales- 
sina?" 

"For  the  present,"  answered  John. 

"Until — ?"  she  questioned. 

"Oh,  well,  until  she  sends  me  away,  or  leaves  her 
self,"  said  he,  "and  so  my  fool's  paradise  achieves  its 
inevitable  end." 


PART     FIFTH  233 

Lady  Blanchemain  laughed — a  long,  quiet  laugh 
of  amused  contentment. 

"Come  in  to  luncheon,"  she  said,  putting  her 
soft  white  hand  upon  his  arm,  "and  tell  me  all  about 
it."  And  when  they  were  established  at  her  table,  a 
round  table,  gay  with  flowers,  in  a  window  at  the  far 
end  of  the  cool,  terazza-paved,  stucco-columned 
dining-room  of  the  Hotel  Victoria,  "Why  do  you 
call  it  a  fool's  paradise  ?"  she  asked. 

"Well,  you  see,  I'm  in  love,"  said  he. 

"You  really  are?"  she  doubted,  with  sprightli- 
ness,  looking  gleeful. 

"All  too  really,"  he  assured  her,  in  a  sinking 
voice. 

"What  an  old  witch  I  was,"  mused  she,  with  satis 
faction.  "Accept  my  heart-felt  felicitations."  She 
beamed  upon  him. 

"I  should  prefer  your  condolences,"  said  he,  in  a 
voice  from  the  depths. 

"Allans  done!  Cheer  up,"  laughed  she,  dallying 
with  her  bliss.  "Men  have  died,  and  worms  have 
eaten  them,  but  not  for  love." 


234  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"I  wonder,"  said  John.  "That  is  a  statement,  it 
seems  to  me,  which  would  be  the  better  for  some 
proving." 

"At  all  events,"  said  she,  "you,  for  one,  are  not 
dead  yet." 

"No,"  admitted  he ;  "though  I  could  almost  wish 
I  was." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  she  has  definitely  rejected 
you  ?"  she  demanded,  alarmed. 

"Fortune  has  spared  her  that  necessity,"  said 
John.  "I  haven't  asked  her,  and  I  never  shall.  I 
haven't  any  money." 

"Pooh!  Is  that  all?"  scoffed  her  ladyship,  re 
lieved.  "You  have  prospects." 

"Remote  ones — the  remoter  the  better.  I  won't 
count  on  dead  men's  shoes,"  said  John. 

"What  is  it  your  little  fortune-teller  at  the  castle 
calls  you?"  asked  Lady  Blanchemain,  shrewdly,  her 
dark  old  eyebrows  up. 

"She  calls  me  lucus  a  non  lucendo"  was  John's 
quick  riposte ;  and  the  lady  laughed. 

But  in  a  moment  she  pulled  a  straight  face.    "I 


PART  FIFTH  235 

seriously  counsel  you  to  have  more  faith,"  she  said. 
"Go  home  and  ask  her  to  marry  you;  and  if  she 
accepts, — you'll  see.  Money  will  come.  Besides, 
your  rank  and  your  prospective  rank  are  assets 
which  you  err  in  not  adding  to  the  balance.  Go 
home,  and  propose  to  her." 

"  'Twould  do  no  good,"  said  John,  dejectedly. 
"She  regards  me  with  imperturbable  indifference. 
I've  made  the  fieriest  avowals  to  her,  and  she's  never 
turned  a  hair." 

Lady  Blanchemain  looked  bewildered.  "You've 
made  avowals — ?"  she  falteringly  echoed. 

"I  should  rather  think  so,"  John  affirmed.  "In 
direct  ones,  of  course,  and  I  hope  inoffensive,  but 
fiery  as  live  coals.  In  the  third  person,  you  know. 
I've  given  her  two  and  two;  she  has,  you  may  be 
sure,  enough  skill  in  mathematics  to  put  'em  to 
gether." 

"And  she  never  turned  a  hair?"  the  lady  mar 
velled. 

"She  jeered  at  me,  she  mocked  me,  she  laughed 
and  rode  away,"  said  he. 


236  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"She's  probably  in  love  with  you,"  said  Lady 
Blanchemain.  "If  a  woman  will  listen,  if  a  woman 
will  laugh !  If  you  don't  propose  to  her  now,  hav 
ing  ensnared  her  young  affections,  you'll  be  some 
thing  worse  than  the  wicked  nobleman  of  song  and 
story." 

"Oh,  well,"  John  responded,  conciliatory,  "I  dare 
say  some  of  these  days  a  proposal  will  slip  out  when 
I  least  intend  it.  So  I  shall  have  done  the  honour 
able  thing — and  I'm  sure  I  can  trust  her  to  play 
fair  and  say  me  nay." 

Lady  Blanchemain  slowly  shook  her  head.  "I'm 
glad  you're  not  my  lover,"  she  devoutly  murmured, 
plying  her  fan. 

"Oh,  but  I  am,"  cried  John,  with  a  bow,  and  an 
admiring  flash  of  the  eyes. 

Her  soft  old  face  lighted  up ;  then  it  took  on  an 
expression  of  resolution,  and  she  set  her  strong  old 
jaws.  "In  that  case,"  she  remarked,  "you  will  have 
the  less  reluctance  in  granting  a  favour  I'm  about  to 
ask  you." 

"What's  the  favour?"  said  John,  in  a  tone  of 
readiness. 


PART     FIFTH  237 

"I  want  you  to  buy  a  pig  in  a  poke,"  said  she. 

"Oh?"  questioned  he. 

"Yes,"  said  she.  "I  want  you  to  make  me  a 
promise  blindfold.  I  want  you  to  promise  in  the 
dark  that  you  will  do  something.  What  it  is  that 
you're  to  do  you're  not  to  know  till  the  time  comes. 
Will  you  promise?" 

"Dearest  lady,"  said  the  trustful  young  man, 
"I'm  perfectly  confident  that  you  would  never  ask 
me  to  do  anything  that  I  couldn't  do  with  profit 
to  myself.  Buy  a  pig  in  a  poke?  From  you, 
without  a  moment's  hesitation.  Of  course  I  prom 
ise." 

"Bravo,  bravo,"  applauded  Lady  Blanchemain, 
glowing  at  her  easy  triumph.  "In  a  few  days  you'll 
receive  a  letter.  That  will  tell  you  what  it  is  you're 
pledged  to.  And  now,  to  reward  you,  come  with  me 
to  my  sitting-room,  and  I  will  make  you  a  little 
present." 

When  they  had  reached  her  sitting-room  (dim 
and  cool,  with  its  half -drawn  blinds  and  the  straw- 
coloured  linen  covers  of  its  furniture),  she  put  into 


238  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

his  hands  a  small  case  of  shagreen,  small  and  hard, 

and  at  the  edges  white  with  age. 

"Go  to  the  window  and  see  what's  in  it,"  she 
said. 

And  obeying,  "By  Jove,  what  a  stunner !"  he  ex 
claimed.  The  case  contained  a  ring,  a  light  circle  of 
gold,  set  with  a  ruby,  surrounded  by  a  row  of  dia 
monds, — for  my  part,  I  think  the  most  beautiful 
ruby  I  have  ever  seen.  It  was  as  big  as  a  hazel-nut, 
or  almost ;  it  was  cut,  with  innumerable  facets,  in  the 
shape  of  a  heart;  and  it  quivered  and  burned,  and 
flowed  and  rippled,  liquidly,  with  the  purest,  limpid- 
est  red  fire. 

"  'Tis  the  spirit  of  a  rose,  distilled  and  crystal 
lised,"  said  Lady  Blanchemain. 

"  'Tis  a  drop  of  liquid  light,"  said  John.  "But 
why  do  you  give  it  to  me  ?  I  can't  wear  it.  I  don't 
think  I  ought  to  accept  it." 

"Nobody  asks  you  to  wear  it,"  said  Lady 
Blanchemain.  "It's  a  woman's  ring,  of  course. 
But  as  for  accepting  it,  you  need  have  no  scruples. 
It's  an  old  Blanchemain  gem,  that  was  in  the  family 


PART     FIFTH  239 

a  hundred  years  before  I  came  into  it.  It's  properly 
an  heirloom,  and  you're  the  heir.  I  give  it  to  you 
for  a  purpose.  Should  you  ever  become  engaged,  I 
desire  you  to  place  it  upon  the  finger  of  the  ad 
venturous  woman." 


IV 


Under  a  gnarled  old  olive,  by  the  river's  brim,  An- 
nunziata  sat  on  the  turf,  head  bowed,  so  that  her 
curls  fell  in  a  tangle  all  about  her  cheeks,  and  gazed 
fixedly  into  the  green  waters,  the  laughing,  dancing, 
purling  waters,  green,  and,  where  the  sun  reached 
them,  shot  with  seams  and  cleavages  of  light,  like 
fluorspar.  In  the  sun-flecked,  shadow-dappled  grass 
near  by,  violets  tried  to  hide  themselves,  but  were 
betrayed  by  their  truant  sweetness.  The  waters 
purled,  a  light  breeze  rustled  the  olive-leaves,  and 
birds  were  singing  loud  and  wild,  as  birds  will  after 
rain. 

Maria  Dolores,  coming  down  the  path  that  fol 
lowed  the  river's  windings,  stood  for  a  minute,  and 


240  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

watched  her  small  friend  without  speaking.  But  at 
last  she  called  out,  "Ciao,  Annunziata.  Are  you 
dreaming  dreams  and  seeing  visions?" 

Annunziata  started  and  looked  up.  "Sh-h!"  she 
whispered,  with  an  admonitory  gesture.  She  stole 
a  wary  glance  roundabout,  and  then  spoke  as  one 
fearful  of  being  overheard.  "I  was  listening  to  the 
music  of  Divopan,"  she  said. 

Maria  Dolores,  who  had  come  closer,  appeared  at 
a  loss.  "The  music  of — what?"  she  questioned. 

"Sh-h,"  whispered  Annunziata.  "I  would  not 
dare  to  say  it  aloud.  The  music  of  Divopan." 

"Divopan?"  Maria  Dolores  puzzled,  compliantly 
guarding  her  tone.  "What  is  that  ?" 

"Divo — Pan,"  said  Annunziata,  dividing  the 
word  in  two,  and  always  with  an  air  of  excessive 
caution. 

But  Maria  Dolores  helplessly  shook  her  head. 
"I'm  afraid  I  don't  understand.  What  is  Divo — 
Pan?" 

"Don't  you  know  what  a  divo  is?"  asked  Annun 
ziata,  her  clear  grey  eyes  surprised. 


PART     FIFTH  241 

"Oh,  a  divo?"  said  Maria  Dolores,  getting  a 
glimmer  of  light.  "Ah,  yes,  a  divo  is  a  saint,  I 
think?" 

"Not  exactly,"  Annunziata  discriminated,  "but 
something  like  one.  The  saints,  you  see,  are  always 
very  good,  and  divi  are  sometimes  bad.  But  they 
are  powerful,  like  saints.  They  can  do  anything 
they  wish.  Divo  Pan  is  the  divo  who  makes  all  the 
music  that  you  hear  out  of  doors, — the  music  of  the 
wind  and  the  water  and  the  bird-songs.  But  you 
must  be  careful  never  to  praise  his  music  aloud,  lest 
Divo  Apolione  should  hear  you.  He  is  the  divo  that 
makes  all  the  music  you  hear  on  instruments — on 
harps  and  violins  and  pianos.  He  is  very  jealous 
of  Divo  Pan,  and  if  he  hears  you  praising  him,  will 
do  something  to  you.  You  know  what  he  did  to 
King  Mida,  don't  you?" 

"What  did  he  do?"  asked  Maria  Dolores. 

Annunziata  stole  another  wary  glance  about. 

"Once  upon  a  time,"  she  recounted,  always  in 
her  lowest  voice,  "many  years  ago,  hundreds  of 
years  ago,  the  King  of  this  country  was  named 


242  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

Mida.  And  he  loved  very  much  the  music  of  Divo 
Pan.  He  loved  to  sit  by  the  river  here,  and  to  listen 
to  the  music  of  the  water,  and  of  the  leaves,  and  of 
the  birds.  I  love  to  do  it  too,  and  I  think  he  was 
quite  right.  But  one  day,  in  his  house,  there  came 
a  musician  with  a  harp,  and  began  to  play  to  him. 
And  the  King  listened  for  a  while,  and  then  he  told 
the  musician  to  stop.  'Your  music  is  very  good,'  he 
said,  'but  now  I  am  going  into  the  fields  and  by  the 
river,  where  I  can  hear  a  music  I  like  better.'  But 
the  musician  with  the  harp  was  really  Divo  Apol- 
lone  himself,  disguised.  And  this  made  him  very 
angry  and  jealous.  And  to  punish  King  Mida 
he  changed  his  ears  to  long  hairy  ears,  like  an 
ass's.  So,  if  you  love  the  music  of  Divo  Pan,  you 
must  be  very  careful  not  to  let  Divo  Apollone 
hear  you  praise  it,  or  he  will  do  something  to 
you." 

And  to  drive  home  this  application  of  her  theme, 
she  held  up  a  warning  finger. 

Maria  Dolores  had  listened,  smiling.    Now  she 
gave  a  gay  little  laugh,  and  then  for  a  moment 


PART  FIFTH  243 

mused.  "That  is  a  very  curious  bit  of  history," 
she  said,  in  the  end.  "How  ever  did  it  come  to  your 
knowledge?" 

Annunziata  shrugged.  "Oh,"  she  answered, 
"everybody  knows  that.  I  have  known  it  for  years. 
My  grandmother  who  lived  in  Milan  told  it  to  me. 
Doesn't  the  water  look  cool  and  pleasant?"  was  her 
abrupt  digression,  as  she  returned  her  gaze  to  the 
Rampio.  "When  it  is  hot  like  this,  I  should  like  to 
lie  down  in  the  water,  and  go  to  sleep.  Wouldn't 
you?" 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  said  Maria  Dolores.  "I  should 
rather  fear  I  might  be  drowned." 

"Oh,  but  that  wouldn't  hurt,"  said  Annunziata, 
with  security.  "To  be  drowned  in  such  beautiful 
green  water,  among  all  those  beams  of  light,  would 
be  nice." 

"Perhaps  you  are  not  aware,"  said  Maria  Do 
lores,  "that  when  people  are  drowned  they  die  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  that,"  said  Annunziata.  "But" 
- — she  raised  calm  pellucid  eyes — "wouldn't  you 
like  to  die?" 


244  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Maria  Dolores,  a  shadow 
on  her  face. 

"I  would,"  said  Annunziata,  stoutly.  "It  must 
be  lovely  to  die." 

"Hush,"  Maria  Dolores  rebuked  her,  frowning. 
"You  must  not  say  such  things." 

"Why  not  say  them,  if  you  think  them?"  asked 
Annunziata. 

"You  mustn't  think  them,  either,"  said  Maria 
Dolores. 

"Oh,  I  can't  help  thinking  them,"  said  Annun 
ziata,  with  a  movement.  "It  surely  must  be  lovely 
to  die  and  go  to  Heaven.  If  I  were  perfectly  sure 
I  should  go  to  Heaven,  I  would  shut  my  eyes  and 
die  now.  But  I  should  probably  have  to  wait  some 
time  in  Purgatory.  And,  of  course,  I  might  go  to 
Hell." 

Maria  Dolores'  face  was  full  of  trouble.  "You 
must  not  talk  like  that,"  she  said.  "You  must  not. 
It  is  wicked  of  you." 

"Then,  if  I  am  wicked,  I  should  go  to  Hell?" 
inquired  Annunziata,  looking  alertly  up. 


PART     FIFTH  245 

Maria  Dolores  looked  about  her,  looked  across 
the  river,  down  the  valley,  as  one  in  distress  scan 
ning  the  prospect  for  aid.  "Of  course  you  would 
not,"  she  said.  "My  dear  child,  can't  we  find  some 
thing  else  to  talk  of?" 

"Do  you  think  I  shall  have  a  very  long  and  hard 
Purgatory?"  asked  Annunziata. 

Maria  Dolores  threw  a  despairing  glance  at  the 
horizon. 

"No,  no,  dear,"  she  answered,  uneasily.  "You 
will  have  a  very  short  and  gentle  one.  Anyhow, 
you'll  not  have  to  consider  that  for  years  to  come. 
Now  shall  we  change  the  subject?" 

"Well,"  said  Annunziata,  with  an  air  of  delibera 
tion,  "if  you  are  perfectly  sure  I  shall  not  go  to 
Hell,  and  that  my  Purgatory  will  not  be  long  and 
hard,  I  think  I  will  do  what  I  said.  I  will  lie  down 
in  the  water  and  go  to  sleep,  and  the  water  will 
drown  me,  and  I  shall  die." 

Maria  Dolores'  face  was  terrified.  "Annun 
ziata  !"  she  cried.  "You  don't  know  what  you  are 
saying.  You  are  cruel.  You  won't  do  anything  of 


246  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

the  sort.  You  must  give  me  your  solemn  word  of 
honour  that  you  won't  do  anything  of  the  sort.  It 
would  be  a  most  dreadful  sin.  Come.  Come  with 
me  now,  away  from  here,  away  from  the  sight  of 
the  river.  You  must  never  come  here  alone  again. 
Give  me  your  hand,  and  come  away." 

Annunziata  got  up,  gave  her  hand,  and  moved 
off  at  Maria  Dolores'  side,  toward  the  castle.  "Of 
course,"  she  said,  "if  I  want  to  die,  I  don't  need  to 
lie  down  in  the  water.  I  can  die  at  any  moment  I 
wish,  by  just  shutting  my  eyes,  and  holding  my 
breath,  and  telling  my  heart  seven  times  to  stop 
beating.  Heart,  stop  beating ;  heart,  stop  beating ; 
— that  way,  seven  times." 

"For  the  love  of  Mercy,"  wailed  poor  Maria 
Dolores,  almost  writhing  in  her  misery.  .  .  . 
Then,  suddenly,  she  breathed  a  deep  sigh  of  relief, 
and  fervently  exclaimed,  "Thank  God."  John  was 
advancing  toward  them,  down  the  rugged  path 
way. 

"Do  please  come  and  help  me  with  this  perverse 
and  maddening  child,"  she  called  to  him,  in  Eng- 


PART  FIFTH  247 

lish.  "She's  frightening  me  half  out  of  my  wits 
by  threatening  to  die.  She  even  threatened  to 
drown  herself  in  the  Rampio." 

"Children  of  her  complexion  can't  die,"  said 
John,  in  Italian  (and  Annunziata  pricked  up  her 
ears).  "They  can  only  turn  into  monkeys,  and 
then  they  have  to  live  in  the  forests  of  Africa,  where 
it  is  always  dark,  and  all  the  men  and  women  are 
negro  savages,  and  all  the  other  animals  (  except  the 
mosquitoes  and  the  snakes)  are  lions  and  tigers. 
Besides,  if  Annunziata  were  to  turn  into  a  monkey, 
she  couldn't  have  the  sugared  chestnuts  that  some 
body  or  other  has  brought  her  from  Roccadoro. 
On  the  chest  of  drawers  in  my  room  there  has  mys 
teriously  appeared  a  box  of  sugared  chestnuts. 
I  thought  they  were  for  her,  but  they're  not, 
unless  she  will  promise  never  to  turn  into  a  mon- 
key." 

Annunziata's  eyes  had  clouded. 

"Of  course  I  won't  turn  into  a  monkey,"  she  said, 
in  accents  at  once  of  disillusion  and  disdain.  "I  did 
not  know  there  was  any  such  danger.  I  should  hate 


248  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

to  be  a  monkey."  Then  her  eyes  brightened  again. 
"May  I  go  and  get  them  now?"  she  asked,  wistful 
and  impatient. 

"Yes,"  said  John ;  "be  off  with  you."  And  she 
went  running  lightly  up  the  hill. 

He  turned  to  Maria  Dolores.  Her  face  (clear- 
cut,  with  its  dark  hair,  against  the  red  background 
of  her  sunshade)  was  white  and  drawn  with  pain. 
But  she  smiled,  rather  wanly,  as  her  gaze  met  his, 
and  said,  in  a  weak  voice,  "Oh,  I  am  so  glad 
you  came.  I  can't  tell  you  how  she  was  frighten 
ing  me."  And  all  at  once  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears. 

I  needn't  say  whether  John  was  moved,  whether 
it  was  his  impulse  to  take  her  in  his  arms  and  dry  her 
tears  with  kisses.  He  did  actually,  on  that  impulse, 
give  a  perceptible  start  toward  her,  but  then  he 
restrained  himself.  "The  child  ought  to  be 
whipped,"  he  broke  out  angrily.  "You  must  not 
take  her  prattle  so  seriously." 

"But  she  was  so  serious,"  said  Maria  Dolores. 
"Oh,  when  she  threatened  to  lie  down  in  the  river, 


PART  FIFTH  249 

and  let  herself  be  drowned — !"  Her  voice  failed 
her,  as  at  the  inexpressible. 

"No  fear  of  that,"  said  John.  "The  first  touch 
of  the  cold  water  (and  icy-cold  it  is,  a  glacier- 
stream,  you  know)  would  bring  her  to  her  senses. 
But  come!  You  must  not  think  of  it  any  more. 
You  have  had  a  bad  shock,  but  no  bones  are  broken, 
and  now  you  must  try  to  banish  it  all  from  your 
mind." 

"What  an  unaccountable  child  she  is,"  said 
Maria  Dolores.  "Surely  it  is  unnatural  and  alarm 
ing  for  a  child  to  have  her  head  so  teeming  with 
strange  freaks  and  fancies.  Oh,  I  pray  God  to 
grant  that  nothing  may  happen  to  her." 

"The  most  serious  evil  that's  likely  to  happen  to 
her  for  the  present,"  said  John,  "will  be  an  indiges 
tion  of  marrons  glaces." 

Maria  Dolores'  tears  had  gone  now.  She  smiled. 
But  afterward  she  looked  grave  again.  "Oh,  I 
wish  I  could  get  the  dread  of  something  happening 
to  her  out  of  my  heart.  I  wish  she  wasn't  so  pale 
and  fragile-looking,"  she  said.  Then  there  came  a 


250  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

gleam  in  her  eyes.    "But  you  were  going  for  a 

walk,  and  I  am  detaining  you." 

"The  object  of  my  walk  has  been  accomplished," 
said  John. 

"Oh?"  questioned  she. 

"I  was  walking  in  the  hope,  on  the  chance,  that  I 
might  meet  you,"  he  hardily  explained.  "It's  such 
an  age  since  I've  seen  you.  Are  you  making  for  the 
garden  ?  I  pray  you  to  be  kind,  and  let  me  go  with 
you.  I've  been  an  exile  and  a  wanderer — I've  been 
to  Roccadoro." 

She  had  rebegun  her  ascension  of  the  hill.  The 
path  was  steep,  as  well  as  rugged.  Sometimes  John 
had  to  help  her  over  a  hard  bit.  The  touch  of  her 
hand,  soft  and  warm,  and  firm  too,  in  his ;  the  sense 
of  her  closeness;  the  faint  fragrance  of  her  gar 
ments,  of  her  hair, — these  things,  you  may  be  sure, 
went  to  his  head,  went  to  his  heart.  The  garden  lay 
in  a  white  blaze  of  sunshine,  that  seemed  almost 
material,  like  an  incandescent  fluid;  but  the  en 
trance  to  the  avenue  was  dark  and  inviting.  "Let 
us,"  he  proposed,  "go  and  sit  on  a  marble  bench 


PART     FIFTH  251 

under  the  glossy  leaves  of  the  ilexes,  in  the  deep, 
cool  shade ;  and  let's  play  that  it's  a  thousand  years 
ago,  and  that  you're  a  Queen  (white  Queen  Blanche, 
like  a  queen  of  lilies),  and  that  I'm  your  minstrel- 
man." 

"What  song  will  you  sing  me?"  asked  she  gaily, 
as  they  took  their  places  on  the  marble  bench.  It 
was  semicircular,  with  a  high  carved  back  (carved 
with  the  armorials  of  the  Sforzas),  and  of  course  it 
was  lichen-stained,  grey  and  blue  and  green,  yellow 
and  scarlet. 

" White  Queen  Blanche,  like  a  queen  of  lilies, 

Fairer  and  dearer  than  dearest  and  fairest, 
To  hear  me  sing,  if  it  her  sweet  will  is, — 

Sing,  minstrel-man,  of  thy  love,  an  thou  darest," 

trolled  John,  in  his  light  barytone,  to  a  tune,  I  im 
agine,  improvised  for  the  occasion.  "But  if  it's  a 
thousand  years  ago,"  he  laughed,  "that  song 
smacks  too  much  perhaps  of  actuality,  and  I  had 
best  choose  another." 


252  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

Maria  Dolores  joined  in  his  laugh.  "I  did  not 
know  you  sang,"  she  said.  "Let  me  hear  the 
other." 

"A  song,"  reflected  he,  "that  I  could  sing  with  a 
good  deal  of  feeling  and  conviction,  would  be  'Give 
her  but  the  least  excuse  to  love  me.'  " 

Maria  Dolores  all  at  once  looked  sober. 

"Oughtn't  you  to  be  careful,"  she  said,  "to  give 
her  no  excuse  at  all  to  love  you,  if  you  are  really  re 
solved  never  to  ask  her  to  be  your  wife?" 

"That  is  exactly  what  I  have  given  her,"  an 
swered  John,  "no  excuse  at  all.  I  should  sing  in  a 
spirit  purely  academic, — my  song  would  be  the  ut 
terance  of  a  pious  but  hopeless  longing,  of  the 
moth's  desire  for  the  star." 

"But  she,  I  suppose,  isn't  a  star,"  objected  Maria 
Dolores.  "She's  probably  just  a  weak  human 
woman.  You  may  have  given  her  excuses  without 
meaning  to."  There  was  the  slightest  quaver  in  her 
voice. 

John  caught  his  breath;  he  turned  upon  her  al 
most  violently.  But  she  was  facing  away  from 


PART  FIFTH  253 

him,  down  the  avenue,  so  that  he  could  not  get 
her  eyes. 

"In  that  case,"  she  said,  "wouldn't  you  owe  her 
something?" 

"I  should  owe  myself  a  lifetime's  penance  with 
the  discipline,"  John  on  a  solemn  tone  replied,  hun 
grily  looking  at  her  cheek,  at  the  little  tendrils  of 
dark  hair  about  her  brow.  "God  knows  what  I 
should  owe  to  her." 

"You  would  owe  it  to  her,"  said  Maria  Dolores, 
always  facing  away,  "to  tell  her  your  love  straight 
forwardly,  and  to  ask  her  to  marry  you." 

John  thrilled,  John  ached.  His  blue  eyes  burned 
upon  her.  "What  else  do  you  think  I  dream  of, 
night  and  day?  But  how  could  I,  with  honour? 
You  know  my  poverty,"  he  groaned. 

"But  if  she  has  enough,  more  than  enough,  for 
two  ?"  softly  urged  Maria  Dolores. 

"Ah,  that's  the  worst  of  it,"  cried  he.  "If  we 
were  equals  in  penury,  if  she  had  nothing,  then  I 
might  honourably  ask  her,  and  we  could  live  on 
herbs  together  in  a  garret,  and  I  could  keep  her 


254  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

respect  and  my  own.  Oh,  garret-paradise!  But 
to  marry  a  woman  who  is  rich,  to  live  in  luxury  with 
her,  and  to  try  to  look  unconscious  while  she  pays 
the  bills, — she  would  despise  me,  I  should  abhor  my 
self." 

"Why  should  she  despise  you?"  asked  Maria  Do 
lores.  "The  possession  of  wealth  is  a  mere  accident. 
If  people  are  married  and  love  each  other,  I  can't  see 
that  it  matters  an  atom  whether  their  money  be 
longed  in  the  first  place  to  the  man  or  to  the  woman, 
— it  would  belong  henceforward  to  them  both 
equally." 

"That  is  a  very  generous  way  of  looking  at  it, 
but  it  is  a  woman's  way.  No  decent  man  could  ac 
cept  it,"  said  John. 

"Up  to  a  certain  point,"  said  Maria  Dolores, 
slowly,  "I  understand  your  scruples.  I  understand 
that  a  poor  man  might  feel  that  he  would  not  like  to 
make  the  'advances,  if  the  woman  he  loved  was 
rich.  But  suppose  the  woman  loved  him,  and 
knew  that  he  loved  her,  and  knew  that  it  was 
only  his  poverty  which  held  him  back,  then  she 


PART  FIFTH  255 

might  make  the  advances.  .She  might  put  aside  her 
pride,  and  go  half  way  to  meet  him,  and  to  remove 
his  difficulties  and  embarrassments.  If,  after  that, 
he  still  did  not  ask  her,  I  think  his  scruples  would 
have  become  mere  vanity, — I  think  it  would  show 
that  he  cared  more  for  his  mere  vanity  than  for  her 
happiness." 

Her  voice  died  out.  John  could  see  that  her  lip 
quivered  a  little.  His  throat  was  dry.  The  pulses 
were  pounding  in  his  temples.  His  brain  was  all  a 
confusion.  He  hardly  knew  what  had  befallen  him, 
he  hardly  knew  what  she  had  said.  He  only  knew 
that  there  was  a  great  ball  of  fire  in  his  breast,  and 
that  the  pain  of  it  was  half  an  immeasurable  joy. 

"God  forgive  me,"  the  absurd  and  exaggerated 
stickler  for  the  dignity  of  his  sex  wildly  cried. 
"God  knows  how  I  love  her,  how  I  care  for  her  hap 
piness.  But  to  go  to  her  empty-handed, — but  to 
put  myself  in  the  position  of  being  kept  by  a 
wroman, — God  knows  how  impossible  it  is." 

Maria  Dolores  stood  up,  still  looking  away  from 
him. 


256  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"Well,  let  us  hope,"  she  said,  changing  her 
tone  to  one  of  unconcerned  detachment,  "that  we 
have  been  discussing  baseless  suppositions.  Let  us 
hope  that  her  heart  is  quite  untouched.  And  for 
both  your  sakes,"  she  concluded,  her  head  in  the  air, 
"let  us  hope  that  you  and  she  will  never  meet  again. 
Good-bye." 

She  gave  him  a  curt  little  nod,  and  walked  lightly, 
rapidly  up  the  avenue. 

John's  brain  was  all  a  confusion.  He  looked  after 
her  helplessly.  He  only  knew  there  was  a  great  ball 
of  fire  in  his  breast,  and  that  the  pain  of  it  was  now 
unmixed. 


Maria  Dolores  tripped  into  Frau  Brandt's  sitting- 
room,  merrily  singing  a  snatch  of  song. 

"  Garde  z  vous  d'etre  severe 
Quand  on  vous  parle  d'amour," 

she    carolled.     Then    she    stopped    singing,    and 
blithely  laughed. 


PART     FIFTH  257 

Frau  Brandt  raised  her  good  brown  face  from  her 
knitting,  and  her  good  brown  eyes  looked  anxiously 
upward,  slantwise  over  her  tortoise-shell-rimmed 
spectacles. 

"What  is  the  matter  now?"  she  asked.  "What 
has  happened  to  vex  you  now?" 

"To  vex  me!"  cried  Maria  Dolores,  in  apparent 
astonishment.  "Wasn't  I  singing  aloud  from  sheer 
exuberance  of  high  spirits  ?" 

"No,"  said  Frau  Brandt,  with  a  very  positive 
shake  of  her  white-capped  head.  "You  were  sing 
ing  to  conceal  your  low  spirits.  What  has  hap 
pened?" 

"Ah,  well,  then,  if  you  know  so  much  and  must 
know  all,"  said  Maria  Dolores,  "I've  just  proposed 
to  the  man  I'm  in  love  with,  and  been  sent  about  my 
business." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  Frau  Brandt,  phleg 
matic.  "What  nonsense  is  this  ?" 

"I  mean  my  cobbler's  son,"  Maria  Dolores  an 
swered.  "I,  a  Princess  of  the  Empire,  humbly  of 
fered  him,  a  cobbler's  son,  my  hand,  heart,  and  for- 


258  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

tune, — and  the  graceless  man  rejected  them  with 

scorn." 

"That  is  a  likely  story,"  said  Frau  Brandt,  wag 
ging  her  chin.  Her  blunt  brown  fingers  returned  to 
their  occupation.  "I  see  your  Serene  Highness  of 
fering  her  hand." 

"At  all  events,  will  you  kindly  tell  Josephine  to 
pack  our  boxes.  To-morrow  we'll  be  flitting,"  her 
Serene  Highness  in  a  casual  way  announced. 

"What  say  you?"  cried  Frau  Brandt,  dropping 
her  knitting  into  her  lap. 

"Yes — to  Mischenau,  to  my  brother,"  the  Princess 
pursued.  "Of  course  you'll  have  to  come  with  us, 
poor  dear.  You  can't  let  me  travel  alone  with 
Josephine." 

"No,"  said  Frau  Brandt.    "I  will  go  with  you." 

"And  you  can  remain  for  my  wedding,"  Maria 
Dolores  added.  "I  am  going  home  to  meet  my 
brother's  wishes,  and  to  marry  my  second-cousin,  the 
high  and  mighty  Maximilian,  Prince  of  Zelt-Zelt." 

"Herr  Gott!"  said  Frau  Brandt,  glancing  with 
devotion  at  the  ceiling. 


PART     FIFTH  259 


VI 


John,  wild-eyed,  was  still  where  she  had  left  him,  in 
the  avenue,  savouring  and  resayouring  his  woe.  "If 
only,"  he  brooded,  "she  were  of  one's  own  rank  in 
the  world,  then  her  wealth  might  perhaps  not  be 
such  an  absolutely  hopeless  impediment  as  it  is.  But 
to  marry,  as  they  say,  beneath  one,  and  to  marry 
money  into  the  bargain, — that  would  be  a  little  too 
much  like  the  fortune-hunter  of  tradition."  He 
still  sat  where  she  had  left  him,  on  the  marble  bench, 
disconsolate,  when  the  parroco  approached  hur 
riedly,  from  the  direction  of  the  house. 

"Signore,"  the  parroco  began,  out  of  breath,  "I 
offer  a  thousand  excuses  for  venturing  to  disturb 
you,  but  my  niece  has  suddenly  fallen  ill.  I  am  go 
ing  to  the  village  to  telephone  for  a  doctor.  My 
cook  is  away,  for  her  Sunday  afternoon.  Might  I 
pray  you  to  have  the  extreme  kindness  to  stay  with 
the  child  till  I  return?  I  don't  know  what  is  the 


260  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

matter,  but  she  fainted,  and  now  is  delirious,  and, 
I'm  afraid,  very  ill  indeed." 

"Good  Heavens,"  gasped  John,  forgetting  every 
thing  else.  "Of  course,  of  course." 

And  he  set  off  hotfoot  for  the  presbytery. 


PART    SIXTH 


I  would  rather  not  dwell  upon  the  details  of  Annun- 
ziata's  illness.  By  the  mercy  of  Providence,  she  got 
well  in  the  end;  but  in  the  meantime  those  details 
were  sufficiently  painful.  John,  for  example,  found 
it  more  than  painful  to  hear  her  cry  out  piteously,  as 
she  often  would  in  her  delirium,  that  she  did  not  wish 
to  be  turned  into  a  monkey ;  he  hung  his  head  and 
groaned,  and  cursed  the  malinspired  moment  which 
had  given  that  chimaera  birth.  However,  he  had 
his  compensations.  Maria  Dolores,  whom  he  had 
thought  never  to  see  again,  he  saw  every  day.  "Let 
us  hope  that  you  and  she  may  never  meet  again." 
In  his  despairing  heart  the  words  became  a  re 
frain.  But  an  hour  later  the  news  of  trouble 
at  the  presbytery  had  travelled  to  the  pavilion, 
261 


262  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

and  she  flew  straight  to  Annunziata's  bedside. 
Ever  since  (postponing  those  threatened  nup 
tials  at  Mischenau)  she  had  shared  with  John,  and 
the  parroco,  and  Marcella  the  cook,  the  labours  of 
nurse.  And  though  it  was  arranged  that  the  men, 
turn  and  turn  about,  should  watch  by  night,  and  the 
women  by  day,  John,  by  coming  early  and  leaving 
late,  contrived  to  make  a  good  part  of  his  vigil  and 
of  hers  coincident.  And  the  strange  result  is  that 
now,  looking  backward  upon  that  period  of  pain 
and  dread,  when  from  minute  to  minute  no  one  knew 
what  awful  change  the  next  minute  might  bring, — 
looking  backward,  and  seeing  again  the  small  bare 
room,  cell-like,  with  its  whitewashed  walls,  its  iron 
cot,  its  crucifix,  its  narrow  window  (through  which 
wide  miles  of  valley  shone),  and  then  the  little  white 
face  and  the  brown  curls  tossing  on  the  pillow,  and 
the  woman  of  his  love  sitting  near  to  him,  in  the  inti 
macy  of  a  common  care  and  common  duties, — the 
strange  result  is  that  John  feels  a  glow  in  his  heart, 
as  at  the  memory  of  a  period  of  joy. 

"Oh,  do  not  let  them  turn  me  into  a  monkey.    Oh, 


PART  SIXTH  263 

Holy  Mother,  I  am  so  afraid.  Oh,  do  not  let  them," 
Annunziata  cried,  shuddering,  and  shrinking  deeper 
into  bed,  toward  the  wall. 

John  hung  his  head  and  wrung  his  hands.  "My 
God,  my  God,"  he  groaned. 

"You  should  not  blame  yourself,"  Maria  Dolores 
said  in  a  low  voice,  while  she  bathed  the  child's  fore 
head,  and  fanned  her  face.  "Your  intention  was 
good,  you  could  not  foresee  what  has  happened,  and 
it  may  be  for  the  best,  after  all, — it  may  strengthen 
her  'will  to  live,'  which  is  the  great  thing,  the  doctor 
says." 

She  had  spoken  English,  but  Annunziata's  next 
outcry  was  like  a  response. 

"Oh,  to  live,  to  live — I  want  to  live,  to  live.  Oh, 
let  me  live." 

But  at  other  times  her  wandering  thoughts  took 
quite  a  different  turn. 

Gazing  solemnly  up  into  Maria  Dolores'  face, 
she  said,  "He  does  not  even  know  her  name,  though 
he  fears  it  may  be  Smitti.  I  thought  it  was  Maria 
Dolores,  but  he  fears  it  may  be  Smitti." 


264  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

John  looked  out  of  the  window,  pretending  not  to 
hear,  and  praying,  I  expect,  that  Maria  Dolores' 
eyes  might  be  blinded  and  her  counsel  darkened. 
At  the  same  time  ( Heaven  having  sent  me  a  laugh 
ing  hero)  I  won't  vouch  that  his  shoulders  didn't 
shake  a  little. 


II 


Apropos  of  their  ignorance  of  each  other's  patro 
nymics  .  .  .  One  afternoon  Maria  Dolores  was  tak 
ing  the  air  at  the  open  door  of  the  presbytery,  when, 
to  a  mighty  clattering  of  horses'  hoofs,  a  big  high- 
swung  barouche  came  sweeping  into  the  court-yard, 
described  a  bold  half  circle,  and  abruptly  drew  up 
before  her.  In  the  barouche  sat  a  big  old  lady,  a 
big  soft,  humorous-eyed  old  lady,  in  cool  crepe-de- 
chine,  cream-coloured,  with  beautiful  white  hair,  a 
very  gay  light  straw  bonnet,  and  a  much  befurbe- 
lowed  lavender-hued  sunshade.  Coachman  and  foot 
man,  bolt  upright,  stared  straight  before  them,  as 


PART  SIXTH  265 

rigid  as  if  their  liveries  were  of  papier-mache.  The 
horses,  with  a  full  sense  of  what  they  owed  to  ap 
pearances,  fierily  champed  their  bits,  tossed  their 
manes,  and  pawed  the  paving-stones.  The  old  lady 
smiled  upon  Maria  Dolores  with  a  look  of  great 
friendliness  and  interest,  softly  bowed,  and  wished 
her,  in  a  fine,  warm,  old  high-bred  voice,  "Good  af 
ternoon." 

Maria  Dolores  (feeling  an  instant  liking,  as  well 
as  curiosity  and  admiration)  smiled  in  her  turn,  and 
responded,  "Good  afternoon." 

"You  enjoy  a  fine  view  from  here,"  the  old  lady 
remarked,  ducking  her  sunshade  in  the  direction  of 
the  valley. 

"A  beautiful  view,"  agreed  Maria  Dolores,  fol 
lowing  the  sunshade  with  her  eyes. 

Those  of  the  stranger  had  a  gleam.  "But  don't 
you  think,  if  the  unvarnished  truth  may  be  whis 
pered,  that  it's  becoming  the  merest  trifle  too  hot?" 
she  suggested. 

Maria  Dolores  lightly  laughed.  "I  think  it  is 
decidedly  too  hot,"  she  said. 


266  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"I'm  glad  to  find  we're  of  the  same  opinion,"  de 
clared  the  old  lady,  fanning  herself.  "You  can 
positively  see  the  heat,  vibrating  there  in  the  dis 
tance.  We  children  of  the  North  should  fly  such 
weather.  For  my  part,  I'm  off  to-morrow  for  Eng 
land,  where  I  can  shiver  through  the  summer  com 
fortably  in  my  chimney-corner." 

Maria  Dolores  laughed  out  again. 

"So  I've  driven  over  from  Roccadoro,"  the  new 
comer  continued,  "to  have  a  farewell  look  at  a  young 
man  of  my  acquaintance  who's  staying  here.  I  dare 
say  you  may  know  him.  He  has  blue  eyes  and  a 
red  beard,  a  flattering  manner  and  a  pretty  wit,  and 
his  name  is  Blanchemain." 

"Oh?"  said  Maria  Dolores,  her  eyebrows  going 
up.  "Is  that  his  name  ?  You  mean  the  young  Eng 
lishman  who  lives  with  the  parroco  ?" 

The  old  lady's  eyebrows,  which  were  thick  and 
dark,  went  up  too. 

"Is  it  possible  you  didn't  know  his  name  ?"  was  her 
surprised  ejaculation.  Then  she  said,  "I  wonder 
whether  he  is  anywhere  about?" 


PART    SIXTH  267 

"I  fancy  he's  asleep,"  said  Maria  Dolores. 

"Asleep?  At  this  hour?"  The  dark  eyebrows 
frowned  their  protest.  "That  sounds  like  a  sad 
slugabed." 

Maria  Dolores  looked  serious.  "He  was  up  all 
night.  We  have  a  child  ill  here,  and  he  was  up  all 
night,  watching." 

The  stranger's  grey  eyes  filled  with  concern  and 
sympathy.  "I  hope,  I'm  sure,  it's  not  that  pretty 
little  girl,  the  niece  of  the  parroco  ?"  she  said. 

"Unhappily,  it  is,"  said  Maria  Dolores.  "She 
has  been  very  ill  indeed." 

"I  am  extremely  sorry  to  hear  it,  extremely 
sorry,"  the  old  lady  declared,  with  feeling.  "If  I 
can  be  of  any  sort  of  use — if  I  can  send  anything — 
or  in  any  way  help — "  Her  eyes  completed  the 
offer. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you,"  replied  Maria  Do 
lores.  "You  are  most  kind,  but  I  don't  think  there 
is  anything  anyone  can  do.  Besides,  she  is  on  the 
mend  now,  we  hope.  The  doctor  says  the  worst  is 
probably  over." 


268  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"Well,  thank  God  for  that,"  exclaimed  the  vis 
itor,  with  a  will.  She  considered  for  a  moment,  and 
then  reverted  to  the  previous  question.  "So  you 
did  not  know  that  my  vivid  young  friend's  name 
was  Blanchemain  ?" 

"No,"  said  Maria  Dolores. 

"It  is  a  good  name — there's  none  better  in  Eng 
land,"  averred  the  old  lady  with  a  nod  of  emphasis 
that  set  the  wheat-ears  in  her  bonnet  quivering. 

"Oh — ?"  said  Maria  Dolores,  looking  politely  in 
terested. 

"He's  the  nephew  and  heir  of  Lord  Blanchemain 
of  Ventmere,"  her  instructress  went  on.  "That  is 
one  of  our  most  ancient  peerages." 

"Really?"  said  Maria  Dolores.  (What  else  did 
she  say  in  her  heart  ?  Where  now  was  her  cobbler's 
son?) 

"And  I'm  glad  to  be  able  to  add  that  I'm  his  sort 
of  connection — I'm  the  widow  of  the  late  Lord 
Blanchemain."  The  lady  paused ;  then,  with  that 
smile  of  hers  which  we  know,  that  smile  which  went 
as  an  advance-guard  to  disarm  resentment,  "Peo- 


PART  SIXTH  269 

pie  of  my  age  are  allowed  to  be  inquisitive,"  she 
premised.  "I  have  introduced  myself  to  you — 
won't  you  introduce  yourself  to  me  ?" 

"My  name  is  Maria  Dolores  of  Zelt-Neuminster," 
answered  the  person  questioned,  also  smiling. 

The  widow  of  the  late  Lord  Blanchemain  in 
wardly  gasped,  but  she  was  quick  to  suppress  all 
outward  symptoms  of  that  circumstance.  The 
daughter  of  Eve  in  her  gasped,  but  the  practised 
old  Englishwoman  of  the  world  affably  and  imper- 
turbably  pronounced,  with  a  gracious  movement  of 
the  head,  "Ah,  indeed?  You  are  then,  of  course,  a 
relation  of  the  Prince  ?" 

"I  am  the  Prince's  sister,"  said  Maria  Dolores. 
And,  as  if  an  explanation  of  her  presence  was  in 
order,  she  added,  "I  am  here  visiting  my  old  nurse 
and  governess,  to  whom  my  brother  has  given  a 
pavilion  of  the  castle,  for  her  home." 

Lady  Blanchemain  fanned  herself.  "A  miller's 
daughter!"  she  thought,  with  a  silent  laugh  at 
John's  expense  and  her  own.  "I  am  very  glad  to 
have  made  your  acquaintance,"  she  said,  "and  I 


270  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

hope  this  may  not  be  our  last  meeting.  I'm  afraid 
I  ought  now  to  be  hastening  back  to  Roccadoro.  I 
wonder  whether  you  will  have  the  kindness,  when 
you  see  him,  to  convey  my  parting  benediction  to 
Mr.  Blanchemain.  Oh,  no,  I  would  not  let  him 
be  wakened,  not  for  worlds.  Thank  you.  Good 
bye." 

And,  with  a  great  effect  of  majesty  and  impor 
tance,  like  a  conscious  thing,  her  carriage  rolled 
away. 


Ill 


"My  romance  is  over,  my  April  dream  is  ended," 
said  the  Princess,  with  an  air,  perhaps  a  feint,  of 
listless  melancholy,  to  Frau  Brandt. 

"What  mean  you?"  asked  Frau  Brandt,  un 
moved. 

"My  cobbler's  son  has  disappeared — has  van 
ished  in  a  blaze  of  glory,"  her  Serene  Highness  ex 
plained,  and  laughed. 


PART    SIXTH  271 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Frau  Brandt.  "He 
has  not  left  Sant'  Alessina  ?" 

"No,  but  he  isn't  a  cobbler's  son  at  all — he's 
merely  been  masquerading  as  one — his  name  is  not 
Brown,  Jones,  or  Robinson — his  name  is  the  high- 
sounding  name  of  Blanchemain,  and  he's  heir  to  an 
English  peerage." 

"Ah,  so?  He  is  then  noble?"  Frau  Brandt  in 
ferred,  raising  her  eyes,  with  satisfaction. 

"As  noble  as  need  be.  An  English  peer  is  mar 
riageable.  So  here's  adieu  to  my  cottage  in  the 
air." 

"Here's  good  riddance  to  it,"  said  Frau  Brandt. 

That  evening,  at  the  hour  of  sunset,  Maria  Do 
lores  met  John  in  the  garden. 

"You  had  a  visitor  this  afternoon,"  she  an 
nounced.  "A  most  inspiritingly  young  old  lady,  as 
soft  and  white  as  a  powder-puff,  in  a  carriage  that 
was  like  a  coach-and-four.  Lady  Blanchemain. 
She  is  leaving  to-morrow  for  England.  She  desired 
me  to  give  you  her  farewell  blessing." 

"It  will  be  doubly  precious  to  me  by  reason  of  the 


272  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

medium  through  which  it  comes,"  said  John,  with 

his  courtliest  obeisance. 

There  was  a  little  pause,  during  which  she  looked 
at  the  western  sky.  But  presently,  "Why  did  you 
tell  me  you  had  an  uncle  who  was  a  farmer?"  she 
asked,  beginning  slowly  to  pace  down  the  path 
way. 

"Did  I  tell  you  that  ?  I  suppose  I  had  a  boastful 
fit  upon  me,"  John  replied. 

"But  it  very  much  misled  me,"  said  Maria  Do 
lores. 

"Oh,  it's  perfectly  true,"  said  John. 

"You  are  the  heir  to  a  peerage,"  said  Maria  Do 
lores. 

John  had  a  gesture. 

"There  you  are,"  he  said;  "and  my  uncle,  the 
peer,  spends  much  of  his  time  and  most  of  his  money 
breeding  sheep  and  growing  turnips.  If  that  isn't 
a  farmer,  I  should  like  to  know  what  is." 

"I  hope  you  displayed  less  reticence  regarding 
your  station  in  the  world  to  that  woman  you  were 
in  love  with,"  said  she. 


PART     SIXTH  273 

"That  woman  I  was  in  love  with?"  John  caught 
her  up.  "That  woman  I  am  in  love  with,  please." 

"Oh?  Are  you  still  in  love  with  her?"  Maria 
Dolores  wondered.  "It  is  so  long  since  you  have 
spoken  of  her,  I  thought  your  heart  was  healed." 

"If  I  have  not  spoken  of  her,  it  has  been  because 
I  was  under  the  impression  that  you  had  tacitly 
forbidden  me  to  do  so,"  John  informed  her. 

"So  I  had,"  she  admitted.  "But  I  find  that  there 
is  such  a  thing — as  being  too  well  obeyed." 

She  brought  out  her  last  words,  after  the  briefest 
possible  suspension,  hurriedly,  in  a  voice  that 
quailed  a  little,  as  if  in  terror  of  its  own  audacity. 
John,  with  tingling  pulses,  turned  upon  her.  But 
she,  according  to  her  habit  at  such  times,  refused 
him  her  eyes.  He  could  see,  though,  that  her  eye 
lashes  trembled. 

"Oh,"  he  cried,  "I  love  her  so  much,  I  need  her 
so,  I  suppose  I  shall  end  by  doing  the  dishonourable 
thing." 

"Did  you  ever  tell  her  that  you  were  Lord 
Blanchemain's  heir?"  she  asked. 


274  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"I  never  thought  of  it.  Why  should  I?"  said 
John. 

"When  you  were  bemoaning  your  poverty,  as  an 
obstacle  to  marriage,  you  might  have  remembered 
that  your  birth  counted  for  something.  With  us 
Austrians,  for  example,  birth  counts  for  almost 
everything, — for  infinitely  more  than  money." 

"I  think,"  said  John,  as  one  impersonally  gen 
eralising,  "that  a  fortune-hunter  with  a  tuft  is  the 
least  admirable  variety  of  that  animal.  I  wish  you 
could  see  what  beautiful  little  rose-white  ears  she 
has,  and  the  lovely  way  in  which  her  dark  hair 
droops  about  them." 

"How  long  ago  was  it,"  mused  she,  "that  love 
first  made  people  fancy  they  saw  beauties  which  had 
no  real  existence?" 

"Oh,  the  moment  you  see  a  thing,  it  acquires  real 
existence,"  John  returned.  "The  act  of  seeing  is  an 
act  of  creation.  The  thing  you  see  has  real  exist 
ence  on  your  retina  and  in  your  mind,  if  nowhere 
else,  and  that  is  the  realest  sort  of  real  exist- 


PART     SIXTH  275 

"Then  she  must  thank  you  as  the  creator  of  her 
'rose-white'  ears,"  laughed  Maria  Dolores.  "I  won 
der  whether  that  sunset  has  any  real  existence,  and 
whether  it  is  really  as  splendid  as  it  seems." 

The  west  had  become  a  vast  sea  of  gold,  a  pure 
and  placid  sea  of  many-tinted  gold,  bounded  and 
intersected  and  broken  into  innumerable  wide  bays 
and  narrow  inlets  by  great  cloud-promontories,  pur 
ple  and  rose  and  umber.  Directly  opposite,  just 
above  the  crest-line  of  the  hills,  hung  the  nearly  full 
moon,  pale  as  a  mere  phantom  of  itself.  And  from 
somewhere  in  the  boscage  at  the  garden's  end  came 
a  lool-lool-lool-lioo-lio,  deep  and  long-drawn,  liquid 
and  complaining,  which  one  knew  to  be  the  prelim 
inary  piping-up  of  Philomel. 

"If  some  things,"  said  John,  "derive  their  beauty 
from  the  eye  of  the  beholder,  the  beauty  of  other 
things  is  determined  by  the  presence  or  absence  of 
the  person  you  long  to  share  all  beautiful  visions 
with.  The  sky,  the  clouds,  the  whole  air  and  earth, 
this  evening,  seem  to  me  beauty  in  its  ultimate  per 
fection." 


276  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

Maria  Dolores  softly  laughed,  softly,  softly. 
And  for  a  long  time,  by  the  marble  balustrade  that 
guarded  this  particular  terrace  of  the  garden,  they 
stood  in  silence.  The  western  gold  burned  to  red, 
and  more  sombre  red;  the  cloud-promontories 
gloomed  purpler ;  the  pale  moon  kindled,  and  shone 
like  ice  afire,  with  its  intense  cold  brilliancy ;  the  olive 
woods  against  the  sky  lay  black ;  a  score  of  night 
ingales,  near  and  far,  were  calling  and  sobbing  and 
exulting;  and  two  human  spirits  yearned  with  the 
mystery  of  love. 

"My  income,"  said  John,  all  at  once,  brusquely 
coming  to  earth,  "is  exactly  six  hundred  pounds  a 
year.  I  suppose  two  people  could  live  on  that, 
though  I'm  dashed  if  I  see  how.  Of  course  we 
couldn't  live  in  England,  where  that  infernal  future 
peerage  would  put  us  under  a  thousand  obligations ; 
but  I  daresay  we  might  find  a  garret  here  in  Italy. 
The  question  is,  would  she  be  willing,  or  have  I  any 
right  to  ask  her,  to  marry  me,  on  the  condition  of 
leaving  her  own  money  untouched,  and  living  with 
me  on  mine?" 


PART    SIXTH  277 

"Apropos  of  future  peerages  and  things,"  said 
Maria  Dolores,  "do  you  happen  to  know  whether 
she  has  any  rank  of  her  own  to  keep  up  ?" 

"I  don't  care  twopence  about  her  rank,"  said 
John. 

"Do  you  happen  to  know  her  name?"  she  asked. 

"I  know  what  I  wish  her  name  was,"  John 
promptly  answered.  "I  wish  to  Heaven  it  was 
Blanchemain." 

Maria  Dolores  gazed,  pensive,  at  the  moon.  "He 
does  not  even  know  her  name,"  she  remarked,  on  a 
key  of  meditation,  "though  he  fears,"  she  sadly 
shook  her  head,  "he  fears  it  may  be  Smitti." 

"Oh,  I  say !"  cried  John,  wincing,  with  a  kind  of 
sorry  giggle;  and  I  don't  know  whether  he  looked 
or  felt  the  more  sheepish.  His  face  showed  every 
signal  of  humiliation,  he  tugged  nervously  at  his 
beard,  but  his  eyes,  in  spite  of  him,  his  very  blue 
blue  eyes  were  full  of  vexed  amusement. 

The  bell  in  the  clock-tower  struck  eight. 

"There — it  is  your  hour  for  going  to  Annun- 
ziata,"  said  Maria  Dolores. 


278  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"You   have   not   answered   my   question?"    said 

John. 

"I  will  think  about  it,"  said  she. 


IV 


Annunziata's  delirium  had  passed,  but  in  spite  of  all 
their  efforts  to  persuade  her  not  to  talk,  talk  she 
would. 

"This  is  the  month  of  May,  isn't  it?"  she  asked, 
next  morning. 

"Yes,  dear  one,"  said  Maria  Dolores,  whose  watch 
it  was. 

"And  that  is  the  month  of  Mary.  San  Luca 
ought  to  hurry  up  and  make  me  well,  so  that  I  can 
keep  flowers  on  the  Lady  Altar." 

"Then  if  you  wish  to  get  well  quickly,"  said 
Maria  Dolores,  "you  must  try  not  to  talk, — nor  even 
to  think,  if  you  can  help  it.  You  know  the  doctor 
does  not  want  you  to  talk." 

"All  right.    I  won't  talk.    A  going  clock  may  be 


PART  SIXTH  279 

always  wrong,  but  a  stopped  clock  is  right  twice  a 
day.  So  stop  your  tongue,  and  avoid  folly.  My 
uncle  told  me  that.  He  never  talks." 

"And  now  shall  you  and  I  imitate  his  example?" 
proposed  Maria  Dolores.  Her  lips,  compressed, 
were  plainly  the  gaolers  of  a  laugh. 

"Yes,"  said  Annunziata.  "But  I  can't  help 
thinking  of  those  poor  flowers.  All  May  flowers 
are  born  to  be  put  on  the  Lady  Altar.  Those  poor 
flowers  are  missing  what  they  were  born  for.  They 
must  be  very  sad." 

"This  afternoon,  every  afternoon,"  Maria  Do 
lores  promised,  "I  will  put  flowers  on  the  Lady 
Altar.  Now  see  if  you  can't  shut  your  eyes,  and 
rest  for  a  little  while." 

"I  once  found  a  toad  on  the  Lady  Altar.  What 
do  you  think  he  was  there  for?"  asked  Annun 
ziata. 

"I  can't  think,  I'm  sure,"  said  Maria  Dolores. 

"Well,  when  I  first  saw  him  I  was  angry,  and  I 
was  going  to  get  a  broom  and  sweep  him  away.  But 
then  I  thought  it  must  be  very  hard  to  be  a  toad, 


£80  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

and  that  you  can't  help  being  a  toad  if  you  are  born 
one,  and  I  thought  that  perhaps  that  toad  was  there 
praying  that  he  might  be  changed  from  a  toad  to 
something  else.  So  I  didn't  sweep  him  away.  Have 
you  ever  heard  of  the  little  Mass  of  Corruption  that 
lay  in  a  garden?" 

"No,"  said  Maria  Dolores. 

"Well,"  said  Annunziata,  "once  upon  a  time  a 
little  Mass  of  Corruption  lay  in  a  garden.  But  it 
did  not  know  it  was  a  Mass  of  Corruption,  and  it 
did  not  wish  to  be  a  Mass  of  Corruption,  and  it 
never  did  any  harm  or  wished  any  harm  to  anyone, 
but  just  lay  there  all  day  long,  and  thought  how 
beautiful  the  sky  was,  and  how  good  and  warm  the 
sun,  and  how  sweet  the  flowers  were  and  the  bird- 
songs,  and  thanked  God  with  all  its  heart  for  having 
given  it  such  a  lovely  place  to  lie  in.  Yet  all  the 
while,  you  know,  it  couldn't  help  being  what  it  was, 
a  little  Mass  of  Corruption.  And  at  the  close  of 
the  day  some  people  who  were  walking  in  the  gar 
den  saw  it,  and  cried  out,  'Oh,  what  a  horrible  little 
Mass  of  Corruption,'  and  they  called  the  gardener, 


PART     SIXTH  281 

and  had  it  buried  in  the  earth.  But  the  little  Mass 
of  Corruption,  when  it  heard  that  it  was  a  little 
Mass  of  Corruption,  felt  very,  very  sad,  and  it  made 
a  supplication  to  Our  Lady.  'I  do  not  wish  to  be  a 
Mass  of  Corruption,'  it  said.  'Queen  of  Heaven, 
pray  for  me,  that  I  may  be  purified,  and  made 
clean,  and  not  be  a  Mass  of  Corruption  any 
longer,  and  that  I  may  then  go  back  to  the  garden, 
out  of  this  dark  earth.'  So  Our  Lady  prayed 
for  it,  and  it  was  cleansed  with  water  and  purified, 
and — what  do  you  think  the  Little  Mass  of  Cor 
ruption  became?  It  became  a  rose — a  red  rose 
in  that  very  garden,  just  where  they  had  buried 
it.  From  which  we  see — But  I  don't  quite  re 
member  what  we  see  from  it,"  she  broke  off,  the 
pain  of  baffled  effort  on  her  brow.  "My  uncle  could 
tell  you  that." 

Afterward,  for  a  few  minutes,  she  was  silent, 
lying  quite  still,  with  her  eyes  on  the  ceiling. 

"Why  do  sunny  lands  produce  dark  people, 
and  dark  lands  light  people?"  she  asked  all  at 
once.  .• 


282  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"Ah,  don't  begin  to  talk  again,  dear,"  Maria  Do 
lores  pleaded.  "The  doctor  will  be  coming  soon 
now,  and  he  will  be  angry  if  he  finds  that  I  have  let 
you  talk." 

"Oh,  I  will  tell  him  that  it  isn't  your  fault,"  said 
Annunziata.  "I  will  tell  him  that  you  didn't  let 
me,  but  that  I  talked  because  it  is  so  hard  to  lie  here 
and  think,  think,  think,  and  not  be  allowed  to  say 
what  you  are  thinking.  Prospero  asked  me  that 
question  about  sunny  lands  a  long  time  ago.  I've 
been  thinking  and  thinking,  but  I  can't  think  it  out. 
Have  you  a  great  deal  of  money?  Are  you  very 
rich?" 

"Darling,  won't  you  please  not  talk  any  more?" 
Maria  Dolores  implored  her. 

"I'll  stop  pretty  soon,"  said  Annunziata.  "I 
think  you  are  very  rich.  I  think,  in  spite  of  his  say 
ing  her  name  is  not  Maria  Dolores,  that  you  are  the 
dark  woman  whom  Prospero  is  to  marry.  He  is  to 
marry  a  dark  woman  who  will  be  very  rich.  But 
then  he  will  also  be  very  rich  himself.  Is  Austria  a 
sunny  land?  England  must  be  a  dark  land,  for 


PART  SIXTH  283 

Prospero  is  light.  Let  me  see  your  left  hand,  please, 
and  I  will  tell  you  whether  you  are  to  marry  a  light 
man." 

"Hush,"  said  Maria  Dolores,  trying  not  to  laugh. 
"That  shall  be  some  other  time." 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  marry  Prospero?  I 
would,"  said  Annunziata. 

"I  think  I  hear  the  wheels  of  the  doctor's  gig," 
said  Maria  Dolores.  "Now  we  shall  both  be 
scolded." 

"But  of  course,  if  you  do  marry  him,  I  can't," 
Annunziata  pursued,  undaunted  by  this  menace. 
"A  man  isn't  allowed  to  have  two  wives, — unless  he 
is  a  king.  He  may  have  two  sisters  or  two  daugh 
ters,  but  not  two  wives  or  two  mothers.  There  was 
once  a  king  named  Salomone  who  had  a  thousand 
wives,  but  even  he  had  only  one  mother,  I  think.  I 
hope  you  will  live  at  Sant'  Alessina  after  your  mar 
riage.  Will  you  ?" 

Maria  Dolores  bit  her  lip  and  vouchsafed  no  an 
swer;  and  again  for  a  minute  or  two  Annunziata 
lay  silent.  But  presently,  "Have  you  ever  waked 


284  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

up  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  and  felt  terribly 

frightened?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  dear,  sometimes.  I  suppose  everyone  has," 
said  Maria  Dolores. 

"Well,  do  you  know  why  people  feel  so  fright 
ened  when  they  wake  like  that?"  pursued  the 
child. 

"No,"  said  Maria  Dolores. 

"I  do,"  said  Annunziata.  "The  middle  of  the 
night  is  the  Devil's  Noon.  Nobody  is  awake  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  except  wicked  people,  like 
thieves  or  roysterers,  or  people  who  are  suffering. 
All  people  who  are  good,  and  who  are  well  and 
happy,  are  sound  asleep.  So  it  is  the  time  the  Devil 
likes  best,  and  he  and  all  his  evil  spirits  come  to  the 
earth  to  enjoy  the  great  pleasure  of  seeing  people 
wicked  or  suffering.  And  that  is  why  we  feel  so 
frightened  when  we  wake.  The  air  all  round  us  is 
full  of  evil  spirits,  though  we  can't  see  them,  and 
they  are  watching  us,  to  run  and  tell  the  Devil  if 
we  do  anything  wicked  or  suffer  any  pain.  But  it 
is  foolish  of  us  to  feel  frightened,  because  our 


PART  SIXTH  285 

Guardian  Angels  are  always  there  too,  and  they  are 
a  hundred  times  stronger  than  the  evil  spirits. 
Angels,  you  know,  are  very  big,  very  much  bigger 
than  men.  Some  of  them  are  as  tall  as  moun 
tains,  but  even  the  quite  small  ones  are  as  tall  as 
trees." 

"This  time  I  really  do  hear  wheels,"  said  Maria 
Dolores,  with  an  accent  of  thanksgiving. 

And  she  rose  to  meet  the  doctor. 


John  sat  in  his  room,  absorbed  in  contemplation  of 
a  tiny  lace-edged  pocket-handkerchief.  He  spread 
it  out  upon  his  knee,  and  laughed.  He  crumpled  it 
up  in  his  palm,  and  pressed  it  to  his  face,  and  drank 
deep  of  its  faint  perfume, — faint,  but  powerfully 
provocative  of  visions  and  emotions.  He  had  found 
it  during  the  night  on  the  floor  of  the  sickroom,  and 
had  captured  and  borne  it  away  like  a  treasure.  He 
spread  it  out  on  his  knee  again,  and  was  again  about 


286  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

to  laugh  at  its  small  size  and  gauzy  texture,  when 
his  eye  was  caught  by  something  in  its  corner.  He 
held  it  nearer  to  the  window.  The  thing  that  had 
caught  his  eye  was  a  cypher  surmounted  by  a  crown, 
embroidered  so  minutely  as  almost  to  call  for  a  mag- 
nifying-glass.  But  without  a  glass  he  could  see 
that  the  cypher  was  composed  of  the  initials  M 
and  D,  and  that  the  crown  was  not  a  coronet,  but 
a  closed  crown,  of  the  pattern  worn  by  mediatised 
princes. 

"What  on  earth  can  be  the  meaning  of  this  ?"  he 
wondered,  frowning,  and  breathing  quick. 

But  he  was  stopped  from  further  speculation  for 
the  moment  by  a  knock  at  the  door.  The  postman 
entered  with  two  letters,  for  one  of  which,  as  it  was 
registered,  John  had  to  sign.  When  he  had  tipped 
the  postman  and  was  alone  again,  he  put  his  regis 
tered  letter  on  the  dressing-table  (with  a  view  to 
disciplining  curiosity  and  exercising  patience,  possi 
bly)  and  turned  his  attention  to  the  other.  In  a 
handsome,  high  old  hand,  that  somehow  reminded 
him  of  the  writer's  voice,  it  ran  as  follows : — 


PART    SIXTH  287 

"DEAR  JOHN  : 

"I  was  heart-broken  not  to  see  you  when  I  drove 
over  to  say  good-bye  this  afternoon,  but  chance 
favoured  me  at  least  to  the  extent  of  letting  me  see 
your  miller's  daughter,  and  you  may  believe  that  I 
was  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  inspect  her  at  close 
quarters.  My  dear  boy,  she  is  no  more  a  miller's 
daughter  than  you  are.  Her  beauty — there's  race 
in  it.  Her  manner  and  carriage,  her  voice,  accent, 
her  way  of  dressing  (I'd  give  a  sovereign  for  the 
name  of  her  dressmaker),  the  fineness  of  her  skin, 
her  hair,  everything — there's  race  in  'em  all,  race 
and  consciousness  of  race,  pride,  dignity,  distinc 
tion.  These  things  don't  come  to  pass  in  a  genera 
tion.  I'm  surprised  at  your  lack  of  perspicacity. 
And  those  blue  eyes  of  yours  look  so  sharp,  too. 
But  perhaps  your  wish  was  father  to  your  thought. 
You  felt  (well,  and  so  to  some  extent  did  I)  that  it 
would  be  more  romantic.  She's  probably  a  very 
great  swell  indeed,  and  I  expect  the  Frau  What's- 
her-name  she's  staying  with  will  turn  out  to  be  her 
old  governess  or  nurse  or  something.  When  those 


288  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

Austrians  can  show  quarterings  (of  course  you 
must  bar  recent  creations — they're  generally  named 
Cohen)  they  can  show  them  to  some  effect.  They 
think  nothing  of  thirty-two.  All  of  which,  au 
fond,  rather  rejoices  me,  for  if  she  really  had  been 
a  miller's  daughter,  it  would  have  seemed  a  good 
deal  like  throwing  yourself  away,  and  who  knows 
what  your  rusty,  crusty  old  Uncle  B.  might  have 
said?  I've  long  had  a  rod  in  pickle  for  him,  and 
t'other  day  I  applied  it.  Attendez. 

"Don't  forget  the  pig  you  purchased — so  gal 
lantly  and  confidingly.  I  would  not  to  the  marriage 
of  true  minds  admit  impediments — your  pig  will 
gobble  'em  up.  You  should  by  this  have  received 
a  communication  from  my  solicitors.  Remember, 
you  have  pledged  your  sacred  promise.  There  must 
be  no  question  of  trying  to  shirk  or  burke  it.  Re 
member  that  I  am  quite  outrageously  rich.  I  have 
no  children  of  my  own,  and  no  very  near  relatives 
(and  my  distant  ones  are  intensely  disagreeable), 
and  I  can't  help  looking  upon  the  heir  of  the 
Blanchemains  as  a  kind  of  spiritual  son.  In  your 


PART    SIXTH  289 

position  there's  no  such  thing  as  having  too  much 
money.  Take  all  that  comes,  and  never  mind  the 
quarter  whence.  They're  Plymouth  Brethren,  and 
send  me  tracts. 

"Good-bye  now  till  August,  if  not  before.  For 
of  course  in  August  you  must  come  to  me  at  Fring. 
Will  you  bring  your  bride?  When  and  where  the 
wedding?  I  suppose  they'll  want  it  in  Austria. 
Beware  of  long  engagements — or  of  too  short  ones. 
The  autumn's  the  time, — the  only  pretty  ring-time. 
You  see,  you'll  need  some  months  for  the  prepara 
tion  of  your  trousseau.  I  love  a  man  to  be  smart. 
Well,  good-bye.  I  was  so  sorry  about  that  child's 
illness,  but  thankful  to  hear  she  was  mending. 
"Yours  affectionately, 

"LINDA  BLANCHEMAIN." 

And  his  registered  letter,  when  at  last  he  opened 
it,  ran  thus : 

"DEAR  SIR: — Pursuant  to  instructions  received 
from  our  client  Lady  Blanchemain,  we  beg  to  hand 


290  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

you  herewith  our  cheque  for  Seven  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds  (£750  stg.),  and  to  request  the  favour 
of  your  receipt  for  the  same,  together  with  the  ad 
dress  of  your  bankers,  that  we  may  pay  in  quarterly 
a  like  sum  to  your  account,  it  being  her  ladyship's 
intention,  immediately  upon  her  return  to  England, 
to  effect  a  settlement  upon  yourself  and  heirs  of 
£100,000  funded  in  Bk.  of  Eng.  stock. 

"We  are  further  to  have  the  pleasure  to  inform 
you  that  by  the  terms  of  a  will  just  prepared  by  us, 
and  to  be  executed  by  Lady  Blanchemain  at  the 
earliest  possible  date,  you  are  constituted  her  residu 
ary  legatee. 

"With  compliments  and  respectful  congratula 
tions, 

"We  have  the  honour,  dear  Sir,  to  be, 
"Your  obedient  servants, 
"FARROW,  BERNSCOT,  AND  TISDALE." 

And  then  there  came  another  tap  at  the  door,  and 
it  was  the  postman  who  had  returned,  with  a  third 
letter  which,  like  the  true  Italian  postman  that  he 


PART     SIXTH  291 

was,  he  had  forgotten, — and  I  fancy,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  that  tip  still  warm  in  his  pocket,  the  easy 
going  fellow  would  have  allowed  it  to  stand  over  till 
to-morrow.  He  made,  at  any  rate,  a  great  virtue 
of  having  discovered  it  and  of  having  retraced  his 
steps. 

The  letter  was  written  in  black,  angular,  uncom 
promising  characters,  that  looked  rather  like  sabre- 
thrusts  and  bayonets.  It  read : — 

"DEAR  JACK  : — I  have  received  the  enclosure  from 
Linda  Lady  Blanchemain.  She  is  an  exceedingly 
impertinent  and  meddlesome  old  woman.  But  she 
is  right  about  the  allowance.  I  don't  know  why  I 
never  thought  of  it  myself.  I  don't  know  why  you 
never  suggested  it.  I  extremely  regret  it.  As  next 
in  succession,  you  are  certainly  entitled  to  an  annuity 
from  the  estate.  I  have  to-day  remitted  £500  to 
your  bankers,  and  am  instructing  my  agents  to  pay 
in  a  like  amount  quarterly. 

"I  hope  I  shall  soon  be  seeing  you  at  Ventmere. 
We  are  having  a  grand  lambing  season,  but  there's 


292  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

a  nasty  spread  of  swine-fever,  and  the  whole  coun 
try's  papered  with  handbills.  I  got  a  goodish  bit 
of  hunting  down  at  Wilsborough  during  the  winter. 
Now  there's  nothing  to  do  but  play  golf.  I  never 
could  find  any  fun  in  shooting  rooks. 

"Your  affectionate  uncle, 

"B.  of  V." 

And  the  enclosure : — 

"Linda  Lady  Blanchemain  presents  her  compli 
ments  to  Lord  Blanchemain  of  Ventmere,  and  begs 
to  apprise  him  that  she  has  lately  had  the  pleasure 
of  meeting  his  lordship's  nephew  John,  and  has  dis 
covered  to  her  amazement  that  his  lordship  makes 
him  no  allowance.  This  situation,  for  the  heir  to 
the  barony  of  Blanchemain,  is  of  course  absurd,  and 
must,  Lady  Blanchemain  is  sure,  be  due  entirely  to 
an  oversight  on  his  lordship's  part.  She  ventures, 
therefore,  with  all  respect,  to  bring  it  to  his  notice." 

So !  Here  sat  a  young  man  with  plenty  to  think 
about;  a  young  man,  whose  income,  yesterday  a 
bare  six  hundred,  had  sprung  up  over  night  to 


PART  SIXTH  293 

something  near  six  thousand.  Six  thousand  a  year 
isn't  opulence,  if  you  like,  but  a  young  man  possess 
ing  it  can  hardly  look  upon  himself  as  quite  empty- 
handed,  either.  This  young  man,  however,  had 
other  things  as  well  to  think  of.  What  of  that  em 
broidered  kerchief?  What  of  those  shrewd  suspi 
cions  of  Lady  Blanchemain's  ?  What  of  his  miller's 
daughter? 

And  there  was  another  thing  still.  What  of  his 
proud  old  honest  Spartan  of  an  unimaginative 
uncle?  He  thought  of  him,  and  "Oh,  the  poor  old 
boy,"  he  cried.  "Not  for  ten  times  the  money  would 
I  have  had  the  dear  old  woman  write  to  him  like  that. 
How  hard  it  must  have  hit  him." 

"M,  D,  and  a  princely  crown,"  he  reflected.  "I 
wish  I  had  an  Almanach  de  Gotha." 


294  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 


VI 


"Who  was  it  said  of  someone  that  he  dearly  loved  a 
lord?"  Maria  Dolores,  her  chin  in  the  air,  asked  of 
Frau  Brandt. 

"I  do  not  know,"  Frau  Brandt  replied,  knit 
ting. 

"Well,  at  least,  you  know  whether  it  would 
be  possible  for  a  man  and  wife  to  live  luxurious 
ly  on  sixpence  a  week.  Would  it?"  pursued  her 
tease. 

"You  are  well  aware  that  it  would  not,"  said 
Frau  Brandt. 

"How  about  six  hundred  pounds  a  year?" 

"Six  hundred  pounds — ?"  Frau  Brandt  com 
puted.  "That  would  be  six  thousand  florins,  no? 
It  would  depend  upon  their  station  in  the 
world." 

"Well,  suppose  their  station  were  about  my  sta 
tion — and  my  lord's  ?" 


PART    SIXTH  295 

"You,"  said  Frau  Brandt,  with  a  chuckle  of  con 
tentment,  swaying  her  white-bonneted  head.  "You 
would  need  twice  that  for  your  dress  alone." 

"One  could  dress  more  simply,"  said  Maria  Do 
lores. 

"No,"  said  Frau  Brandt,  her  good  eyes  beaming, 
"you  must  always  dress  in  the  very  finest  that  can 
be  had." 

"But  then,"  Maria  Dolores  asked  with  wistful- 
ness,  "what  am  I  to  do  ?  For  six  hundred  pounds  is 
the  total  of  his  income." 

"You  have,  unless  I  am  mistaken,  an  income  of 
your  own,"  Frau  Brandt  remarked. 

"Yes — but  he  won't  let  me  use  it,"  said  Maria 
Dolores. 

"He?  Who?"  demanded  Frau  Brandt,  bridling. 
"Who  is  there  that  dares  to  say  let  or  not  let  to 
you?" 

"My  future  husband,"  said  Maria  Dolores.  "He 
has  peculiar  ideas  of  honour.  He  does  not  like  the 
notion  of  marrying  a  woman  who  is  richer  than  him 
self.  So  he  will  marry  me  only  on  the  condition 


296  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

that  I  send  my  own  fortune  to  be  dropped  in  the 

middle  of  the  sea." 

"What  nonsense  is  this?"  said  Frau  Brandt,  com 
posed. 

"No,  it  is  the  truth,"  said  Maria  Dolores,  "the 
true  truth.  He  is  too  proud  to  live  in  luxury  at  his 
wife's  expense." 

"I  like  a  man  making  conditions,  when  it  is  a 
question  of  marrying  you"  said  Frau  Brandt,  with 
scorn. 

"So  do  I,"  said  Maria  Dolores,  with  heartiness. 

"Well,  at  any  rate,  I  am  glad  to  see  that  he  is 
not  after  you  for  your  money,"  Frau  Brandt  re 
flected. 

"I  suppose  we  shall  have  to  dress  in  sackcloth  and 
dine  on  lentils,"  said  Maria  Dolores. 

"Of  course  you  will  tell  him  to  take  his  conditions 
to  the  Old  One,"  said  Frau  Brandt.  "It  is  out  of 
the  question  for  you  to  change  the  manner  of  your 
life." 

"I  feel  indeed  as  if  it  were,"  admitted  Maria  Do 
lores.  "But  if  he  insists?" 


PART    SIXTH  297 

"Then  tell  him  to  go  to  the  Old  One  himself,"  was 
Frau  Brandt's  blunt  advice. 

Maria  Dolores  laughed.  "It  seems  like  an  im 
passe"  she  said.  "Who  is  to  break  the  news  to  my 
brother?" 

"We  will  wait  until  there  is  some  news  to  break," 
the  old  woman  amiably  grumbled. 

Again  at  the  sunset  hour  Maria  Dolores  met  him 
in  the  garden.  He  was  seated  on  one  of  their  mar 
ble  benches,  amongst  marble  columns  (rose-tinted 
by  the  western  light,  and  casting  long  purple  shad 
ows),  in  a  vine-embowered  pergola.  He  was  leaning 
forward,  legs  crossed,  brow  wrinkled,  as  one  deep  in 
thought.  But  of  course  at  the  sound  of  her  foot 
step  he  jumped  up. 

"What  mighty  problem  were  you  revolving?"  she 
asked.  "You  looked  like  Rembrandt's  philosophe 
en  meditation." 

"I  was  revolving  the  problem  of  human  love,"  he 
answered.  "I  was  mutilating  Browning. 

6  Was  it  something  said, 
Something  done. 


298  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

Was  it  touch  of  hand, 
Turn  of  head?9 

I  was  also  thinking  about  you.  I  was  wondering 
whether  it  would  be  my  cruel  destiny  not  to  see  you 
this  evening,  and  thinking  of  the  first  time  I  ever 
saw  you." 

"Oh,"  said  she,  lightly,  "that  morning  among  the 
olives, — when  you  gathered  the  windflowers  for 
me?" 

"No,"  said  he.    "That  was  the  second  time." 

"Indeed?"  said  she,  surprised.  She  sat  down  on 
the  marble  bench.  John  stood  before  her. 

"Yes,"  said  he.  "The  first  time  was  the  day  be 
fore.  You  were  crossing  the  garden — you  were 
bending  over  the  sun-dial — and  I  spied  upon  you 
from  a  window  of  the  piano  nobile.  Lady  Blanche- 
main  was  there  with  me,  and  she  made  a  pre 
diction." 

"What  did  she  predict?"  asked  Maria  Dolores, 
unsuspicious. 

"She  predicted  that  I  would  fall—"     But  he 


PART  SIXTH  299 

dropped  his  sentence  in  the  middle.  "She  predicted 
what  has  happened." 

"Oh,"  murmured  Maria  Dolores,  and  looked  at 
the  horizon.  By-and-by,  "That  morning  among 
the  olives  was  the  first  time  that  I  saw  you — when 
you  dashed  like  a  paladin  to  my  assistance.  I  feel 
that  I  have  never  sufficiently  thanked  you." 

"A  paladin  oddly  panoplied,"  said  John.  "Tell 
me  honestly,  weren't  you  in  two  minds  whether  or 
not  to  reward  me  with  largesse?  You  had  silver  in 
your  hand." 

Maria  Dolores  laughed.  I  think  she  coloured  a 
little. 

"Perhaps  I  was,  for  half  a  second,"  she  confessed. 
"But  your  grand  manner  soon  put  me  in  one 
mind." 

John  also  laughed.  He  took  a  turn  backward 
and  forward.  "I  have  waked  in  the  dead  of  night, 
and  grown  hot  and  cold  to  remember  the  figure  of 
fun  I  was." 

"No,"  said  Maria  Dolores,  to  console  him.  "You 
weren't  a  figure  of  fun.  Your  costume  had  the  air 


300  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

of  being  an  impromptu,  but,"  she  laughed,  "your 

native  dignity  shone  through." 

"Thank  you,"  said  John,  bowing.  "The  next 
time  I  saw  you  was  that  same  afternoon.  You  were 
with  Annunziata  in  the  avenue.  I  carried  my  vision 
of  you,  like  a  melody,  all  the  way  to  Roccadoro — 
and  all  the  way  home  again." 

"I  had  just  made  Annunziata's  acquaintance," 
said  Maria  Dolores. 

"You  had  a  white  sunshade  and  a  lilac  frock," 
said  John.  "The  next  time  was  that  night  in  the 
moonlight.  You  were  all  in  white,  with  a  scarf  of 
white  lace  over  your  hair.  You  threw  me  a  white 
rose  from  your  balcony — and  I  have  carried  that 
rose  with  me  ever  since." 

"I  threw  you  a  white  rose?"  doubted  Maria  Do 
lores,  looking  up,  at  fault. 

"Yes,"  said  John.    "Have  you  forgotten  it?" 

"I  certainly  have,"  said  she,  with  emphasis. 

"You  threw  me  a  smile  that  was  like  a  white 
rose,"  said  he. 

She  laughed. 


PART     SIXTH  301 

"I  think  I  just  distantly  acknowledged  your 
bow,"  she  said. 

"Well,  some  people's  distant  acknowledgments 
are  like  white  roses,"  said  he.  "I  hope,  at  least,  you 
remember  what  a  glorious  night  it  was,  and  how  the 
nightingales  were  singing?" 

"Yes,"  said  she.    "I  remember  that." 

"I  have  a  fancy,"  he  declared,  "that  it  will  be  a 
more  glorious  night  still  to-night,  and  that  the 
nightingales  will  sing  better  than  they  have  ever 
sung  before." 

Maria  Dolores  did  not  speak. 

"Do  you  happen,"  John  asked,  after  a  long 
silence,  while  they  gazed  at  the  deepening  colours  in 
the  west,  "do  you  happen  to  possess  such  a  thing  as 
a  copy  of  the  Almanach  de  Gotha  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  she. 

"Really?  I  wonder  whether  you  will  lend  it  to 
me?" 

"I  am  sorry — it  is  in  Vienna."  And  after  an  in 
stant's  pause,  she  ventured,  "What,  if  it  isn't  indis 
creet  to  inquire,  do  you  wish  to  look  up  ?" 


302  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"I  wish  to  look  up  a  lady — a  dream  lady — a  lady 
who  walks  in  beauty  like  the  night  of  cloudless 
climes — and  whose  pocket-handkerchiefs  are  em 
broidered  with  the  initials  M.  D.,  in  a  cypher,  under 
a  princely  crown." 

"I  should  think,"  said  Maria  Dolores,  consider 
ing,  "that  she  would  probably  be  a  member  of  one 
of  the  mediatised  princely  houses.  But  if  you  have 
nothing  more  than  her  initials  to  go  by,  you  would 
find  it  difficult  to  trace  her  in  the  Almanach  de 
Gotha." 

"No  doubt,"  said  John.  "But  to  a  man  of  spirit 
a  difficulty  is  a  challenge." 

"Do  you  make  a  practice,"  asked  she,  "of  appro 
priating  people's  handkerchiefs  ?" 

"Certain  people's — yes,"  unblushing,  he  prompt 
ly  owned. 

"M.  D.  under  a  princely  crown,  I  think  you 
said?"  she  mused.  "It  occurs  to  me  that  Maria 
Dolores  of  Zelt-Neuminster's  pocket-handkerchiefs 
might  be  so  embroidered." 

"Ah?"    said    John.     "Zelt-Neuminster?     That 


PART  SIXTH  303 

would  be  a  daughter  of  the  man  who  owns  this 
castle?" 

"No,  she  is  a  sister  of  the  man  who  owns  this 
castle." 

"I  understand,"  said  John.  "I  wonder  that  the 
sister  of  the  man  who  owns  this  castle  never  comes 
here  to  see  how  fine  it  is." 

"She  has  been  here  quite  recently,"  said  Maria 
Dolores.  "She  has  been  here  visiting  her  foster- 
mother,  who  lives  in  the  pavilion  beyond  the  clock. 
She  came  to  make  a  sort  of  retreat — to  think  some 
thing  over." 

"Yes — ?"  questioned  he. 

"Her  brother  is  very  anxious  to  marry  her  off. 
He  is  anxious  that  she  should  marry  her  second 
cousin,  the  Prince  of  Zelt-Zelt.  She  came  here  to 
make  up  her  mind." 

"Has  she  made  it  up  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  not  sure,"  said  she. 

"Yet  you  seem  to  be  deep  in  her  confidence,"  said 
he. 

"Yes — but  she  is  not  quite  sure  herself." 


304  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"Oh—  ?»  said  John. 

"She  is  one  of  those  foolish  women  who  dream  of 
marriage  as  a  high  romance." 

"Wise  men,"  said  John,  "dream  of  it  as  the  high 
est." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"A  marriage  with  her  cousin  would  be  an  end  to 
all  romance  forever.  She  was  thinking  a  little  while 
ago,  I  believe,  of  marrying  a  plain  commoner,  the 
nephew  of  a  farmer.  That  would  have  been  indeed 
romantic.  Now,  I  hear,  she  is  considering  a  future 
member  of  your  English  House  of  Lords." 

"Wouldn't  even  that  be  rather  romantic — if  a 
step  down  constitutes  romance?"  John  suggested. 

"Oh,  a  British  peer  is  scarcely  a  step  down,"  she 
returned.  "Besides,  there  are  people  who  don't  care 
— what  is  the  expression? — twopence  about  rank." 

"When  I  said  that,"  John  explained,  "I  had  no 
inkling  that  her  rank  was  so  exalted." 

"Did  you  think  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  cob 
bler?"  Maria  Dolores  quickly,  with  some  haughti 
ness,  inquired. 


PART     SIXTH  305 

"I  thought  she  was  a  daughter  of  the  stars," 
John  answered. 

"And  you  feared  her  name  was  Smitti,"  she  said, 
haughtiness  dissolving  in  mirth.  "I  will  never  tell 
you  what  she  feared  that  yours  was." 

"See,"  said  John,  "how  they  are  hanging  the 
heavens  with  banners.  It  must  be  in  honour  of  some 
great  impending  event." 

Yesterday  the  west  had  been  a  sea.  To-day  it 
was  a  city,  a  vast  grey  and  violet  city,  with  palaces 
and  battlemented  towers,  and  countless  airy  spires 
and  pinnacles ;  and  here,  there,  everywhere,  its  walls 
were  gay  with  gold  and  crimson,  as  with  drooping 
banners. 

"  'Tis  a  city  en  fete,"  said  John.  "  'Tis  the  city 
where  marriages  are  made.  They  must  have  one 
in  hand." 

"Hark,"  said  she,  putting  up  a  finger.  "There 
are  your  nightingales  beginning." 

But  the  raised  finger  reminded  him  of  something. 
"Have  you  a  rooted  objection  to  rings?"  he  asked. 

"Why?"  asked  she. 


306  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"I  notice  that  you  don't  wear  any." 

"Oh,  sometimes  I  wear  many,"  she  said.  "Then 
one  has  moods  in  which  one  leaves  them  off." 

"I  have  a  ring  in  my  pocket  which  I  think  be 
longs  to  you,"  said  he. 

"Really  ?  I  don't  know  that  any  of  my  rings  are 
missing." 

"Here  it  is,"  said  he.  He  produced  the  little  old 
shagreen  case  he  had  received  from  Lady  Blanche- 
main,  opened,  and  offered  it. 

"It  is  a  singularly  beautiful  ring,"  said  she,  her 
eyes  admiring.  "But  it  doesn't  belong  to  me." 

"I  think  it  does,"  said  he.  "May  I  try  it  on  your 
finger?" 

She  put  forth  her  right  hand. 

"No — your  left  hand,  please,"  he  said.  He 
dropped  upon  one  knee  before  her,  and  when  the 
delicate  white  hand  was  surrendered,  I  imagine  he 
made  of  getting  the  ring  upon  the  alliance  finger  a 
longer  business  by  a  good  deal  than  was  necessary. 
"There,"  he  said  in  the  end,  "you  see.  It  looks  as 
if  it  had  grown  there.  Of  course  it  belongs  to  you." 


PART  SIXTH  307 

He  still  held  her  hand,  warm  and  firm  and  velvet- 
soft.  I  think  in  another  second  he  would  have 
touched  it  with  his  lips.  But  she  drew  it  away. 

She  gazed  into  the  depths  of  the  heart-shaped 
ruby,  tremulous  with  liquid  light,  and  smiled  as  at 
secret  thoughts. 

"But  I  don't  see,"  said  John,  getting  to  his  feet, 
"how  any  man  can  ask  a  Princess  of  the  House  of 
Zelt  to  marry  him  and  live  on  six  hundred  pounds 
a  year." 

"She  would  have  to  modify  her  habits  a  good 
deal,  that  is  very  certain,"  said  Maria  Dolores. 

"She  would  have  to  modify  them  utterly,"  said 
John.  "Six  hundred  a  year  is  poverty  even  for  a 
single  man.  For  a  married  couple  it  would  be  beg 
gary.  She  would  have  to  live  like  the  wife  of  a 
petty  employe.  She  would  have  to  travel  second 
class  and  stay  at  fourth-rate  hotels.  She  would 
have  to  turn  her  old  dresses  and  trim  her  own  bon 
nets.  She  would  have  to  do  without  a  maid.  And 
all  this  means  that  she  would  have  virtually  to  re 
nounce  her  caste,  to  give  up  the  society  of  her 


308  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

equals,  who  demand  a  certain  scale  of  appearances, 
and  to  live  among  pariahs  or  to  live  in  isolation. 
Don't  you  think  a  man  would  be  a  monster  of  selfish 
ness  to  exact  such  sacrifices  ?" 

"Oh,  some  men  have  excessively  far-fetched  and 
morbid  notions  of  honour,"  said  she. 

"Do  you  think  the  Princess,  with  all  this  brought 
to  her  attention,  would  ever  dream  of  consent- 
ing?" 

"Women  in  love  are  weak — they  will  consent  to 
almost  anything,"  said  she,  her  dark  eyes  smiling 
for  an  instant  into  his. 

Why  didn't  he  take  her  in  his  arms?  Hope  de 
ferred  maketh  the  heart  sick,  but  to  defer  the  con 
summation  of  a  joy  assured  (observes  the  Persian 
poet)  giveth  the  heart  a  peculiar  sweet  excite 
ment. 

"Well,"  said  John.  "I'm  glad  to  think  she  is 
weak ;  but  I'll  never  ask  my  wife  to  consent  to  any 
thing  so  unpleasant.  A  Princess  and  a  future  peer 
ess,  living  on  six  hundred  pounds  a  year!  It's  un 
heard  of." 


PART    SIXTH  309 

She  looked  at  him,  puzzled,  incredulous. 

"Oh — ?  Can  you  possibly  mean — that  you  will 
— take  back  your  condition  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  he,  humbly.  "Who  am  I  to  make 
conditions  ?" 

"You  will  let  her  spend  as  much  of  her  own  money 
as  she  likes  ?"  she  wondered,  wide-eyed. 

"As  a  lover  of  thrift,  I  shall  deprecate  extrava 
gance,"  said  John.  "But  as  a  submissive  husband, 
I  shall  let  her  do  in  all  things  as  her  fancy  dictates." 

"Well,"  marvelled  she,  "here  is  a  surprise — here 
is  a  volte-face  indeed." 

And  she  looked  at  the  city  in  the  sky,  and  ap 
peared  to  turn  things  over. 

John  was  mysteriously  chuckling. 

"Haven't  you  your  opinion,"  he  asked,  "of  men 
who  eat  their  words  and  put  their  scruples  in  their 
pockets  ?" 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  she,  looking  wild. 
"There  is,  of  course,  some  joke." 

"There  is  a  joke,  indeed,"  said  he;  "the  joke  is 
that  I'm  ten  times  richer  than  I  told  you  I  was." 


310  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

She  started  back,  and  fixed  him  with  a  glance. 

"Then  all  that  about  your  being  poor  was  only 
humbug?"  There  was  reproach  in  her  voice,  I'm 
not  sure  there  wasn't  disappointment. 

"No,"  said  he,  "it  was  the  exact  and  literal  truth. 
But  I  have  come  into  a  modest  competency  over 
night." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  she. 

"My  own  part  in  the  story  is  a  sufficiently  in 
glorious  one,"  said  he.  "I'm  the  benefactee.  Lady 
Blanchemain  and  my  uncle  have  put  their  heads  to 
gether,  and  endowed  me.  I  feel  rather  small  at  let 
ting  them,  but  it  enables  me  to  look  my  affianced 
boldly  in  the  money-eye." 

"Oh?  You  are  affianced?  Already?"  she  asked 
gaily. 

"No — not  unless  you  are,"  gaily  answered  John. 

She  looked  down  at  her  ring. 


PART    SIXTH  311 


VII 


The  quiet-coloured  end  of  evening  smiled  fainter, 
fainter.  The  aerial  city,  its  cloud-capped  towers 
and  gorgeous  palaces,  had  crumbled  into  ruins,  and 
stars  twinkled  among  their  shattered  and  darkened 
walls.  The  moon  burned  icily  above  the  eastern 
hills.  The  nightingales  (or  John  was  no  true 
prophet)  sang  better  than  they  had  ever  sung  be 
fore,  while  bats,  hither,  thither,  flew  in  startling 
zig-zags,  as  if  waltzing  to  the  music.  And  all  the 
air  was  sweet  with  the  breath  of  dew-wet  roses. 

The  clock  struck  eight. 

"There — you  must  go,"  said  Maria  Dolores. 

"Go?  Where  to?"  asked  John,  feigning  vague 
ness. 

"This  is  no  subject  for  jest,"  said  she,  feigning 
severity. 

"I  can't  go  yet — I  can't  leave  you  yet,"  said  he. 
"Besides,  it  is  an  education  in  aesthetics  to  watch  the 


312  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

moonlight  on  these  marble  columns,  and  the  pale 
shadows  of  the  vine-leaves." 

"Well,  then,"  said  she,  "stay  you  here  and  pur 
sue  your  education.  I  will  go  in  your  place. 
For  Marcella  Cuciniera  must  be  relieved."  She 
rose,  and  moved  toward  the  darkling  front  of  the 
castle. 

"Hang  education.  I'll  go  with  you,"  said  John, 
following. 

"I  shall  only  stop  a  moment,  to  see  how  she  is," 
said  Maria  Dolores.  "Then  I  must  hurry  home,  to 
get  my  packing  begun." 

"Your  packing?"  faltered  John. 

"To-morrow  morning  Frau  Brandt  and  I  are 
leaving  for  Austria — for  Schloss  Mischenau,  where 
my  brother  lives." 

"Good  Lord,"  said  John.  "Ah,  well,  I  suppose 
it  is  what  they  would  call  the  proper  course,"  he  ad 
mitted  with  gloomy  resignation.  "But  think  how 
dreadfully  you'll  be  missed — by  Annunziata." 

"Annunziata  is  so  much  better,  I  can  easily  be 
spared,"  said  Maria  Dolores;  "and  anyhow — 'tis 


PART  SIXTH  313 

needs  must.  I  think  you  will  probably  soon  re 
ceive  a  letter  from  my  brother  asking  you  to  visit 
him.  Mischenau  is  a  place  worth  seeing,  in  its 
northern  style.  And,  in  his  northern  style,  my 
brother  is  a  man  worth  meeting.  I  counsel  you  to 
go." 

"I  shall  certainly  go,"  said  John.  "I  shall  linger 
here  at  Sant'  Alessina  like  a  soul  in  durance,  count 
ing  the  hours  till  my  release.  I  shall  be  particularly 
glad  to  meet  your  brother,  as  I  have  matters  of  im 
portance  to  arrange  with  him." 

"Until  then,"  said  she,  smiling,  "I  think  we  must 
do  with  those — matters  of  importance" — her  voice 
quavered  on  the  word — "what  is  it  that  the  Pope 
sometimes  does  with  Cardinals  ?" 

"Yes,"  moodily  consented  John,  "I  suppose  we 
must.  But  oh  me,  what  a  dreary,  blank,  stale, 
and  unprofitable  desolation  this  garden  will  be 
come, — and  at  every  turn  the  ghost  of  some  past 
joy!" 

Annunziata  looked  up  with  eyes  that  seemed  om 
niscient. 


314  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

"I  was  thinking  about  you,"  she  greeted  them. 

"About  which  of  us?"  asked  John. 

"About  both  of  you.  I  always  now,  since  a  long 
while,  think  of  you  both  together.  I  think  Maria 
Dolores  is  the  dark  woman  whom  Prospero  is  to 
marry." 

John  laughed.  Maria  Dolores  looked  out  of  the 
window. 

"And  I  was  thinking,"  Annunziata  went  on, 
"how  strange  it  was  that  if  you  hadn't  both  at  the 
same  time  just  happened  to  come  to  Sant'  Alessina, 
you  might  have  lived  and  died  and  never  have  known 
each  other." 

"Perish  that  thought,"  laughed  John.  "But  I 
have  sometimes  thought  it  myself." 

"And  then,"  Annunziata  rounded  out  her  tale, 
"I  thought  that  perhaps  you  had  not  just  happened 
— that  probably  you  had  been  led." 

"That  is  a  thing  I  haven't  a  doubt  of,"  John  with 
energy  affirmed. 

"You  look  as  if  you  were  very  glad  about  some 
thing — both  of  you,"  said  Annunziata,  those  om- 


PART    SIXTH  315 

niscient  eyes  of  hers  studying  their  faces.  "What 
is  it  that  you  are  both  so  glad  of?" 

"We  are  so  glad  to  find  you  feeling  so  well,"  an 
swered  Maria  Dolores. 

But  Annunziata  shook  her  head,  as  one  who  knew 
better.  "No — that  is  not  the  only  thing.  You  are 
glad  of  something  else  besides." 

"There's  no  taking  you  in,"  said  John.  "But  we 
are  under  bonds  to  treat  that  Something  Else  as  the 
Pope  sometimes  treats  Princes  of  the  Church." 

"He  gives  them  red  hats,"  said  Annunziata. 

"I  shall  give  this  thing  a  crown  of  myrtle,"  said 
John. 

"You  sometimes  say  things  that  sound  as  if  they 
hadn't  any  sense,"  Annunziata  informed  him,  with 
patient  indulgence,  nodding  at  the  ceiling. 

Maria  Dolores  leaned  over  the  bed,  and  kissed 
Annunziata's  brow.  "Good  night,  carina,"  she 
murmured. 

Annunziata  put  up  her  little  white  arms,  and  en 
circled  Maria  Dolores'  neck.  Then  she  kissed  her 
four  times — on  the  brow,  on  the  chin,  on  the  left 


316  MY    FRIEND    PROSPERO 

cheek,  on  the  right.  "That  is  a  cross  of  kisses,"  she 
explained.  "It  is  the  way  my  mother  used  to  kiss 
me.  It  means  may  the  four  Angels  of  Peace,  Grace, 
Holiness,  and  Wisdom  watch  over  your  sleep." 

But  early  next  morning,  John  being  still  on  duty, 
Maria  Dolores  came  back, — booted  and  spurred  for 
her  journey,  in  tailor-made  tweeds,  with  a  little  felt 
toque  and  a  veil:  a  costume  of  which  Annunziata's 
eyes  were  quick  to  catch  the  suggestion. 

"Why  are  you  dressed  like  that  ?"  she  asked,  un 
easily.  "I  never  saw  you  dressed  like  that  before. 
You  look  as  if  you  were  going  away  somewhere." 

"I  have  got  to  go  away — I  have  got  to  go  to  my 
home,  in  Austria.  I  have  come  to  bid  you  good 
bye,"  Maria  Dolores  answered. 

Annunziata's  eyes  were  dark  with  pain.  "Oh," 
she  said,  in  a  voice  of  deep  dismay. 

"We  shan't  be  separated  long,  though,"  Maria 
Dolores  promised.  "I  have  asked  your  uncle  to  lend 
you  to  me.  As  soon  as  you  are  strong  enough  to 
travel,  you  are  coming  to  Austria  to  pay  me  a  long 
visit.  Then  I  will  come  back  with  you  to  Sant'  Ales- 


PART  SIXTH  317 

sina.  And  then — well,  wherever  I  go  you  will  al 
ways  go  with  me.  For  of  course  I  can  never  live 
happily  again  without  you." 

"One  moment,  please,"  put  in  John.  "Here  is  a 
small  difficulty.  I  can  never  live  happily  without 
her,  either.  I  also  have  asked  her  uncle  to  lend  her 
to  me.  And  wherever  /  go,  she  is  always  to  go  with 
me.  How  are  we  to  adjust  our  rival  claims?" 

Annunziata's  eyes  lighted  up. 

"Oh,  that  will  be  easy  enough,"  she  pointed  out. 
"You  will  have  to  go  everywhere  together." 


THE     END 


^eton  JHerrttnan 


Author  of  "The  Sowers,"  etc. 

BARLASCH  OF  THE  GUARD 

r 

JL  HE  story  is  set  in  those  desperate  days  when 
the  ebbing  tide  of  Napoleon's  fortunes  swept 
Europe  with  desolation.  Barlasch  —  "Papa 
Barlasch  of  the  Guard,  Italy,  Egypt,  the  Dan 
ube  "  —  a  veteran  in  the  Little  Corporal's  service 
—  is  the  dominant  figure  of  the  story.  Quar 
tered  on  a  distinguished  family  in  the  historic 
town  of  Dantzig,  he  gives  his  life  to  the  romance 
of  Desiree,  the  daughter  of  the  family,  and  Louis 
d'  Arragon,  whose  cousin  she  has  married  and 
parted  with  at  the  church  door.  Louis's  search 
with  Barlasch  for  the  missing  Charles  gives  an 
unforgettable  picture  of  the  terrible  retreat  from 
Russia  ;  and  as  a  companion  picture  there  is  the 
heroic  defence  of  Dantzig  by  Rapp  and  his  little 
army  of  sick  and  starving.  At  the  last  Bar 
lasch,  learning  of  the  death  of  Charles,  plans 
and  executes  the  escape  of  Desiree  from  the 
beleaguered  town  to  join  Louis. 
Illustrated  by  the  Kinneys. 

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Conan  Bople 


Author  of  "The  Adventures  of  Sherlock  Holmes' 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF 
GERARD 


STORIES  of  the  remarkable  adventures  of  a 
Brigadier  in  Napoleon's  army.  In  Etienne  Ge 
rard,  Conan  Doyle  has  added  to  his  already  famous 
gallery  of  characters  one  worthy  to  stand  beside 
the  notable  Sherlock  Holmes.  Many  and  thrill 
ing  are  Gerard's  adventures,  as  related  by  himself, 
for  he  takes  part  in  nearly  every  one  of  Napoleon's 
campaigns.  In  Venice  he  has  an  interesting 
romantic  escapade  which  causes  him  the  loss  of 
an  ear.  With  the  utmost  bravery  and  cunning 
he  captures  the  Spanish  city  of  Saragossa  ;  in 
Portugal  he  saves  the  army  ;  in  Russia  he  feeds 
the  starving  soldiers  by  supplies  obtained  at 
Minsk,  after  a  wonderful  ride.  Everwhere  else 
he  is  just  as  marvelous,  and  at  Waterloo  he  is  the 
center  of  the  whole  battle. 

For  all  his  lumbering  vanity  he  is  a  genial  old 
soul  and  a  remarkably  vivid  story-teller. 

Illustrated  by  W.  B.  Wollen. 

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legman 


Author  of  "  A  Gentleman  of  France  " 

THE  LONG  NIGHT 

r 

(jrENEVA  in  the  early  days  of  the  1  7th  century; 
a  ruffling  young  theologue  new  to  the  city  ;  a 
beautiful  and  innocent  girl,  suspected  of  witch 
craft  ;  a  crafty  scholar  and  metaphysician  seeking 
to  give  over  the  city  into  the  hands  of  the  Savoy 
ards  ;  a  stern  and  powerful  syndic  whom  the 
scholar  beguiles  to  betray  his  office  by  promises 
of  an  elixir  which  shall  save  him  from  his  fatal 
illness  ;  a  brutal  soldier  of  fortune  ;  these  are  the 
elements  of  which  Weyman  has  composed  the 
most  brilliant  and  thrilling  of  his  romances. 
Claude  Mercier,  the  student,  seeing  the  plot  in 
which  the  girl  he  loves  is  involved,  yet  helpless 
to  divulge  it,  finds  at  last  his  opportunity  when 
the  treacherous  men  of  Savoy  are  admitted  within 
Geneva's  walls,  and  in  a  night  of  whirlwind  fight 
ing  saves  the  city  by  his  courage  and  address. 
For  fire  and  spirit  there  are  few  chapters  in 
modern  literature  such  as  those  which  picture  the 
splendid  defence  of  Geneva,  by  the  staid,  churchly, 
heroic  burghers,  fighting  in  their  own  blood  under 
the  divided  leadership  of  the  fat  Syndic,  Baudi- 
chon,  and  the  bandy-legged  sailor,  Jehan  Brosse, 
winning  the  battle  against  the  armed  and  armored 
forces  of  the  invaderSi 

Illustrated  by  Solomon  J.  Solomon. 
_  |1.50  _ 

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(fetlttt  BSurgess  anti 


Authors  of  "The  Picaroons" 

THE  REIGN  OF  QUEEN  ISYL 


IN  "The  Reign  of  Queen  Isyl"  the  authors 
have  hit  upon  a  new  scheme  in  fiction.  The  book 
is  both  a  novel  and  a  collection  of  short  stories. 
The  main  story  deals  with  a  carnival  of  flowers 
in  a  California  city.  Just  before  the  coronation 
the  Queen  of  the  Fiesta  disappears,  and  her 
Maid  of  Honor  is  crowned  in  her  stead  —  Queen 
Isyl.  There  are  plots  and  counterplots  —  half- 
mockery,  half-earnest  —  beneath  which  the  reader 
is  tantalized  by  glimpses  of  the  genuine  mystery 
surrounding  the  real  queen's  disappearance. 

Thus  far  the  story  differs  from  other  novels 
only  in  the  quaintly  romantic  atmosphere  of  mod 
ern  chivalry.  Its  distinctive  feature  lies  in  the 
fact  that  in  every  chapter  one  of  the  characters 
relates  an  anecdote.  Each  anecdote  is  a  short 
story  of  the  liveliest  and  most  amusing  kind  — 
complete  in  itself  —  yet  each  bears  a  vital  relation 
to  the  main  romance  and  its  characters.  The 
short  stories  are  as  unusual  and  striking  as  the 
novel  of  which  they  form  a  part. 

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Author  of  "Fables  in  Slang" 

IN  BABEL 

r 

JL  HESE  are  short  stories,  brief  little  hammer- 
stroke  stories,  just  long  enough  to  hit  the  nail 
upon  the  head.  Mr.  Ade^s  "  Babel "  is  Chicago, 
and  the  scenes  of  the  stories  are  laid  in  familiar 
and  unfamiliar  quarters  of  that  rushing  Western 
metropolis.  It  is  a  book  about  the  real  joys 
and  sorrows  of  real  people,  written  in  pure 
English  by  the  great  master  of  American  slang, 
whose  quaint  philosophy  and  humor  have 
ranked  him  among  America's  most  character 
istic  writers. 

The  stories  deal  with  the  upper,  the  middle, 
and  the  under  classes,  and  show  in  both  pa 
thetic  and  humorous  light  the  happenings  in 
the  fashionable  circles  upon  the  Lake  front,  as 
well  as  among  the  Irish  and  Italian  emigrants 
in  the  squalid  quarters  of  the  city. 

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38ootl)  Carfcington 


THE  TWO  VANREVELS 

r 

A  DELICATE  and  fragrant  romance  of  life  in 
Indiana  in  the  early  forties,  with  a  captivatingly 
sweet  heroine,  a  hero  that  is  brave  and  lovable, 
and  a  plot  that  leads  the  reader  eagerly  to  the  end. 

"  In  a  world  of  disappointing  books,  here  is  one  that  has 
the  true  ring.  It  is  by  far  the  best  thing  Mr.  Tarking- 
ton  has  done."  —  New  York  Press. 

_  $1.50 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM 
INDIANA 

r 

A  REMARKABLE  novel  in  which  politics,  love, 
and  journalism  interweave  to  make  a  story  strongly 
characteristic  and  American. 

"The  book  will  be  read  and  enjoyed  as  a  product  of 
cleverness  as  well  as  for  its  frequent  and  apparently 
faithful  portrayal  of  certain  phases  of  life  in  a  field  still 
fresh  in  fiction." — Chicago  Record. 

$1.50 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

r 

JL  HE    daintiest    romance    ever   penned    by    an 

American  author.     Love  in  periwig,  silks  and  laces. 

Leather— boxed  $2.00  $1.25 

Co. 


>tetoart  Ctitoarti 


T 


CONJUROR'S  HOUSE 

r 


HOSE  who  have  come  to  know  and  to  love  the  great 
forests  of  the  Northwest  through  Mr.  White's  splendid 
epic  of  lumbering  life,  "The  Blazed  Trail,"  will  be 
delighted  to  follow  the  author  still  further  into  the  wooded 
wilderness.  Those  who  admire  strong,  daring,  and  cour 
ageous  men,  with  strength  and  daring  in  love  as  well  as 
in  other  things,  will  find  in  Ned  Trent  a  brave  yet  tender 
character  of  almost  lawless  freedom  they  will  not  soon 
forget.  The  story  is  written  in  Mr.  White's  character 
istic  vein.  It  deals  with  the  old  Hudson  Bay  Company, 
which  holds  power  even  to  the  death  of  free-traders  who 
trespass  upon  its  ground.  Ned  Trent  is  such  a  free-trader, 
and  how  he  courts  and  wins  gentle  Virginia,  the  daughter 
of  the  Commander  of  the  Post,  defying  the  old  man  at 
the  risk  of  his  life,  is  the  theme  which  makes,  in  Mr. 
White's  hands,  an  exciting  and  yet  charmingly  sweet 
story.  $1.25 


THE  BLAZED  TRAIL 

r 

AN  EPIC  of  the  lumbering  life  in  the  great 
forests  of  the  Northwest.  A  book  of  remark 
able  freshness  and  strength. 

"  'The  Blazed  Trail'  is,  in  fact,  a  neiightful  compound 
of  passion  and  emotion,  of  effort  and  result,  and  is,  in  its 
entirety  and  detail,  a  first-rate  novel." — New  York  Sun. 

Eleven  Editions  in  eleven  months  $1.50 

&  Co. 


f  osepi)  Conrati 


Author  of  "  Lord  Jim,"  ••  Youth,"  etc. 

FALK 

r 

A.LL  that  magic  of  word-painting  which  has 
made  Conrad's  stories  of  the  sea  the  wonder  of 
the  literary  world  is  here  turned  to  the  showing 
forth  of  the  hearts  of  men  and  women.  "  Falk," 
the  first  story,  is  the  romance  of  a  port-tyrant  in 
the  far  East,  who,  in  his  love  for  a  young  girl, 
confesses  that  he  has  once  been  driven  to  canni 
balism.  A  more  extraordinary  study  of  human 
passions  has  never  been  put  into  print.  "  Amy 
Foster"  tells  of  a  strange  and  beautiful  foreigner 
who,  lost  by  shipwreck  on  an  English  country 
side,  marries  a  girl  there  ;  and  of  his  tragic  efforts 
to  make  himself  a  real  member  of  the  brutally 
clannish  little  community.  " To-morrow"  is  the 
simple,  pathetic,  and  touching  story  of  an  old  man 
who  waits  for  his  runaway  son  to  return  to  him, 
and  is  supported  in  his  hopeless  expectation  by  a 
brave  and  loving  girl-neighbor. 

$1.50 


&  Co, 


Author  of  "  Golden  Fleece." 

THE  MASTER  ROGUE 


A.  STUDY  in  the  tyranny  of  wealth.  James 
Galloway  founds  his  fortune  on  a  fraud.  He 
ruins  the  man  who  has  befriended  him  and  steals 
away  his  business.  Vast  railroad  operations  next 
claim  his  attention.  He  becomes  a  bird  of  prey 
in  the  financial  world.  One  by  one  he  forsakes 
his  principles ;  he  becomes  a  hypocrite,  posing, 
even  to  himself.  With  the  degeneration  of  his 
moral  character  come  domestic  troubles.  His 
wife  grows  to  despise  him.  One  of  his  sons  be 
comes  a  spendthrift ;  the  other  a  forger.  His 
daughter,  Helen,  alone  retains  any  affection  for 
him.  His  attempts  to  force  his  family  into  the 
most  exclusive  circles  subject  him  and  them  to 
mortifying  rebuffs,  for  all  his  millions  cannot  over 
come  the  ill-repute  of  his  name.  At  last,  with  his 
hundred  millions  won,  his  house  the  finest  in 
America,  his  name  a  name  to  conjure  with  in  the 
financial  world,  he  realizes  that  the  goal  he  has 
reached  was  not  worth  the  race.  Still  he  clings 
to  his  old  ways,  and  dies  in  a  fit  of  anger,  haggling 
over  his  daughter's  dowry.  $1.50. 


&  Co. 


SALLY  OF  MISSOURI 

r 


A  STORY  of  Missouri  life,  presenting  in  a 
vivid,  warm,  realistic  manner  a  primitive 
world,  quite  new  to  fiction  readers.  The  novel 
is  rich  in  poetry  and  romance.  The  strange 
tramp-boy,  the  dominant,  tricky  rich  man  of 
the  town,  the  engaging  Sally  (who  has  the 
distinction  of  being  a  human  being,  as  well 
as  a  heroine),  the  never-to-be-forgotten  back 
woods  children  —  all  these  and  others  live  in 
this  love-story,  and  make  it  of  unusual  origin 
ality  and  interest. 

$1.50 


Co* 


LD  21-95m  7,'37 


' 


961709 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


